


Triumvirate

by The_Noblest_Roman



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Noblest_Roman/pseuds/The_Noblest_Roman
Summary: "Evacuate? In our moment of triumph?...you must think the threat very grave indeed."At the height of the Galactic Empire, three men stood at its peak; Emperor Palpatine, Darth Vader, and Grand Moff Tarkin. They formed a Triumvirate that reigned over a million worlds.During the battle of Yavin Tarkin, blinded by the power of the Death Star, was killed. The Triumvirate was broken and the Empire's eventual fate was sealed. The greatest loss of the day was not the Death Star, but the uncompromising leadership of Wilhuff Tarkin.But imagine if Tarkin was as ruthless and savvy in the Death Star's final moments as all other times we have seen him. What chance would the Rebellion have against an Empire in which the Triumvirate remained whole?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	1. Shifting Perspectives

**Author's Note:**

> This story currently has 9 full chapters (Out of a projected total of 49 or 50 chapters) completed, to the tune of 88,000 words. The existing chapters were initially published on FanFiction. I'll be adding a new chapter weekly until it's caught up with the intially published work, then updating both simultaneously as I go forward.
> 
> If you have no interest in reading a foreword explaining my intentions, feel free to skip this note. There's nothing here that is crucial to your understanding of the story.
> 
> I'm not particularly fond of ending every chapter with author's notes. They are, unfortunately, frequently necessary in fan fiction, because your creative decisions will be compared against established details in the source material, and could be seen as errors even if they were intentional. I'd just like to establish a few things up front, and hopefully I won't need to end every chapter with an explanation of my decisions. If you advance to the story proper and see an author's note at the end of every other chapter, know that I hate myself for this failure more than you ever could.
> 
> Now, some housekeeping. This story holds to the new canon after the Expanded Universe reset, but uses Legends to inform in places where Canon has not – or will not – returned to. Hence, Tarkin's staff features such individuals as Zi Sturgest and Trech Molock, who currently are only defined in Legends. By the end of the story, I expect this will have produced a hodgepodge blend that is mostly Canon, with a few Legends elements filling the gaps.
> 
> This story will not feature the Maw Installation or any of the many superweapons it spawned in Legends, as giving the Empire and Tarkin access to these (mostly ridiculous) superweapons would deprive the story of narrative tension, and undercut the importance of the Death Star. In Legends, there is a Maw Installation superweapon called the Sun Crusher which is the size of a starfighter, singlehandedly destroys stars, was built with almost invincible armour, and was funded by skimming off the top of funds intended for the Death Star. Hopefully I don't need to explain how absurd this idea is, and why I don't wish to use any of its ilk in this story.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this work. I think it's worth mentioning that chapters can and will frequently weigh in at 8,000-10,000 words or more, which means each one can take two months or more from the first word to the final edit. This is a byproduct of my chosen style for this work, wherein each chapter must be a self-contained, continuous narrative - preferably without breaks or any switching of perspectives - and should always end with a resolution to the chapter's immediate conflict, and include a suitable hook to incite interest for chapters to come. My apologies in advance for any delays that this design principle may cause.
> 
> As a final request, I must only ask that if you enjoy or dislike this story, please do leave a review so that I can improve. Feedback on our work is the only payment fan fiction authors get for our efforts, and just a few words acknowledging us can be the difference between pushing through and giving up.
> 
> All glory to the Empire.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Battle of Yavin, Tarkin reconsiders Bast’s warning and abandons the assault on the Rebel Base.

" _Evacuate? In our moment of triumph?_

_...you must think the threat very grave indeed._ "

* * *

It was a surreal thing to stand atop a machine that annihilated cities and erased planets; to have command over a power wholly unique in all of history.

Since the first civilization had ascended into the void there had been millions of warships, thousands of Jedi, and dozens of galactic conquests… but there was only one Death Star. It was a manifestation of power so great that the likes of it had never before been seen in all of recorded history, and Wilhuff Tarkin - a Grand Moff of the Galactic Empire - stood at its helm.

Perhaps he was biased in his own favour, but if Tarkin was pressed on the matter he wouldn't hesitate to identify himself as one of the precious few that had the resolve to use the station's might in the name of peace and stability for the galaxy. He was keenly aware that such a thought was a treacherous one when allowed to grow unchecked. To credit himself with being unparalleled in dedication was to invite a corruption of the sort that could drive oneself to megalomania. Tarkin had to trust he was be above that, because there were few others that could be relied on to wield the Death Star without succumbing to its temptations of power, and to start second-guessing himself would be liable to leave him paralyzed with indecision at a crucial juncture.

Tarkin had lost count of how frequently in his preparations to assume control over the Death Star that he had found some sonorous reminder of the Death Star's importance hidden in his endless logistics reports. Almost without fail, it would leave his thoughts derailed, as he was preoccupied by yet another new perspective of the scope of the power at his fingertips.

The thought that came to mind was that he was akin to a mountain climber, stopping for the evening just short of the summit, knowing that with only a touch more effort the next day, he would be at the peak. Whenever it struck, he would have to lay his datapad aside to properly consider the magnitude of his success, and what more was still to come.

It wasn't a thought Tarkin would ever voice, as to do so would be to describe himself as a 'climber', and Tarkin had always prided himself on advancing his position without any of the pathetic political climbing that was the common tactic of his former peers, who were now his subordinates. He had brought himself to his current position – passing through such exemplary rest stops as governor of Eriadu and Moff of the Greater Seswenna - through deft political alliances with the likes of Senator, Chancellor, and then Emperor Palpatine, offering his allegiance for Palpatine's in turn. He had not grovelled or supplicated himself at the feet of the powerful; he had made himself powerful, and let others prostrate themselves before him instead.

But - as if summoned by the very thought of political climbers - Moradmin Bast appeared in the periphery of his vision, approaching from one of the Overbridge's duty stations. Likely he was bringing some petty matter that was best left to one of the others among his staff.

Tarkin had spent almost two decades of work wading through the backstabbing of naval politics, rebel sabotage, and the grandiose delusions of Orson Krennic. He had spent Two decades waiting for the day that he would bring an end to the plague of dissidence that gnawed at the galaxy; an end to rebellion, treachery, and disorder. And now, when Tarkin stood at the precipice of victory, a man whose accomplishments were rooted in his connections rather than his achievements had come forward to stand in his light and cast a shadow across his success.

That man was General Moradmin Bast, a protege of Joint Chief and High General Cassio Tagge, Chief of Army Operations aboard the Death Star, and begrudged member of Tarkin's staff. He was - to Tarkin's disdain - the embodiment of a political climber, having been whisked to the lofty heights in which he now squatted by Tagge's favour.

None of this was to say that Bast was wholly incompetent. Indeed, sometimes he could be downright capable, but Tarkin couldn't help but dislike his appointment through connections rather than merit. Bast's appointment to his staff had been an act of cronyism, done as a favour to Tagge. Hence, his presence was a constant reminder that he had compromised his own values.

Tarkin was displeased with Bast for having made use of Tagge to get his position, with Tagge for having requested it, and with himself for having agreed to it. The result of this was that Bast often found himself on the receiving end of Tarkin's ire. Though he was Tarkin's personal aide, most of the work that should have gone to him actually went to Hurst Romodi, Tarkin's Adjutant. Bast instead functioned as a glorified secretary, tasked with work which had been deemed too menial or otherwise beneath the notice of the other members of Tarkin's staff.

This cool indifference did not foster a robust working relationship. Tarkin understood that - perhaps as an outlet for his frustration - Bast was known to deride some of Tarkin's decisions as a result. Just the previous day, Tarkin had been made aware that Bast had disparaged his plan to break Leia Organa by showing her the destruction of Alderaan, calling it foolish, and a waste of time. He had said as much to Darth Vader, of all people, clearly not understanding the pair's strong working relationship would result in his disrespect quickly being brought to Tarkin's attention. He and Vader had enjoyed a long discussion regarding how best to inspire respect and loyalty in their subordinates, and Bast had found himself buried under a dozen triplicate petty requisition forms that same evening.

Evening. There was that word again. Now, it was a different kind of evening, and that thought occupied his mind again. The sun was setting on the Rebellion, and Tarkin's peak was within reach. In short order, he'd be up on the summit and have his flag planted. The Rebellion would be destroyed. If Tarkin had to suffer through the General's petty concerns before that, he would do it gladly.

Tarkin proffered Bast the briefest of glances as he approached, then set his gaze squarely on the viewscreen again, more interested in watching for the moment that would spell the end of the Rebel Alliance than hearing what the man had to say.

"We've analysed their attack, sir, and there is a danger," Bast said, his face a mask of meticulously cultivated professionalism. "Shall I have your ship standing by?"

Tarkin took a moment to reply, not really parsing what had been said, but still fighting to keep his irritation hidden - or at least, none more apparent than usual. Then he whipped his head around to stare at Bast, incredulous.

"Evacuate?" he scoffed. "In our moment of triumph? I think you overestimate their chances."

Bast bowed his submission and retreated, and Tarkin turned back to the viewscreen.

The moment, however, was ruined. Total victory inches from his fingers, yet tainted by the suggestion of retreat. Bast took far too much after his mentor. Where Tagge would advise caution, or warn against overconfidence, Bast would turn tail and flee. As if the Rebels were not only a tangible threat, but something to be feared. Preposterous.

Tarkin seethed. It was the height of cowardice; a disgrace to the Empire. When the Rebel Alliance was done away with, he'd see to it that Bast was removed from his staff. Such a lack of fortitude could not go without reprisal, and unlike when he had first voiced doubts at Tagge's recommendation of Bast for Tarkin's personal aide, this time he would not spare a thought for the consequences. Tagge would accept his decision, he would accept his explanation, or if he could do neither then he would suffer through it. The matter was no longer negotiable.

Tarkin glared at the viewscreen, and the vibrant red sphere of Yavin Prime stared back at him. On the far side, the forest moon - Yavin IV - continued its laconic final orbit. Only a few minutes now, and the work would be done.

As slowly as Yavin IV edged closer to destruction, his anger began to ebb, and a cooler thought came to mind. It mused that Bast was many things, but he was not an analyst… and nor, Tarkin had to admit, was he a coward. Then, was his suggestion truly one borne of fear, or was he the courier for another?

Tarkin continued to eye the viewscreen, the idea bouncing through his mind like a ricocheting blaster bolt. If Bast was carrying the warning for another, then who was it? The squadron commander, having analysed the ratio of TIE fighters lost to Rebel fighters destroyed? The gunnery overchief, having lost an inordinate number of turbolaser turrets?

No, no. Both were officers that Tarkin had appointed. They were men he trusted to understand their roles and the pettiness of their losses compared to the scope of the resources they oversaw. But if not them, then...

_The engineers examining the station plans?_

A chill ran down Tarkin's spine, and he clenched one hand into a fist as he fought against the urge to shiver. Not that. Anything but that.

The Rebels had, of course, been desperate to procure the plans for the battle station; they'd snatched them right out of the data vaults at Scarif, and ferried them from world to world in order to get them somewhere that was safe enough - for long enough - that they could be scanned for weaknesses. Tarkin had, of course, trusted that there would be no flaw significant enough to keep the battle station from performing its grim task, and that if there was, the Rebels would have little time to find it amongst the immense and complicated plans, or lack the capability to exploit it.

But if the Imperial engineers, tops of their field and handpicked for their loyalty and confidentiality, were flagging something as a worthwhile threat...

And then, there was the matter of the scientist, Erso, and his collusion with the defector cargo pilot. They had had gone to great lengths to get out a message, the contents of which Tarkin could only guess at. It couldn't just be a warning of the battle station itself; the rebellion had been aware of the scale and portent of the project almost as soon as Sentinel Base - the original construction site - had been established.

So, then, what if Erso's message had been something else? Information, perhaps, on a flaw in the station's design? Instructions on where in the plans to check for the flaw; hence, perhaps something that the Rebels would be able to confirm with only a few hours' possession of the plans.

The idea was daunting to wrap his head around; that this metal hulk which represented the full power and might of the Empire could have a mortal fault. Something that the Rebellion felt it could exploit for their own victory, even now, with Yavin IV mere minutes away from destruction.

It was too much. He almost rejected the notion outright, rather than consider the possibility that his victory was anything other than the certainty that it seemed to be. Then the rational side of him - the side which had guided his every decision since he had joined the Galactic Republic all those decades ago - took its place at the helm once more. Tarkin knew what he had to do; the steps he had to go through until the problem was either solved, or shown to have never existed.

He took a single step back from the viewscreen and turned toward the rear wall of the overbridge, where the members of his staff were leaning over the various consoles and terminals. Bast was hunched over a podium terminal, looking worried. This time, Tarkin didn't feel anger, or disdain. That would come later, or not at all.

"Bast," He called, and the officer snapped upright, his face a caricature of surprise.

"Yes, sir?" Bast replied, making a hesitant salute.

"That risk that you mentioned," Tarkin said, his voice as cold and collected as that first thought that had pierced his fog of irritation. "On whom's analysis was it based? I would like to hear the breadth of their recommendation."

The other officers on the overbridge were watching now. Admiral Motti – who stood at the same console as Bast – quickly glanced back and forth in total bewilderment. Others, such as Wullf Yularen or Siward Cass, were more furtive in their observations. It was not uncommon for Tarkin to foist some mildly interesting punishment on Bast for a minor mistake, but the timing was unusual to say the least, which made the exchange all the more confusing.

Tarkin didn't care. All that mattered now was the truth.

"The, uh…" Bast looked down at his terminal, and irritation threatened to break Tarkin's composure as it had before. Then Bast looked up again and said "The 'Special Engineering Review Task Force', sir."

Now it was the chill that threatened to break him, not attacking just his spine, but shocking his whole system. While Tarkin had previously heard the idiom of one's 'blood running cold', he had never appreciated the accuracy of the description until now. The feeling was so profound, it was as if ice water had been poured directly into his veins. His head and extremities tingled, then felt detached, as if everything his body did now came on a slight delay.

"And their recommendation, general? What is it?" Tarkin asked, keeping his voice even.

Bast looked down at his terminal again, thumbed at it twice, then looked up again, his face visibly paler. "Th-they say that, uh, they have identified a potential flaw in, uh-" he glanced down and back up again. "The-the shielding on the reactor exhaust system. Uh, a precision strike could cause…" another glance at his terminal. "A 'cascade reactor breach', and 'subsequent catastrophic failure'."

The quiet that followed was like a physical weight settling on Tarkin's shoulders. His head threatened to droop, which he disguised by holding a fist in front of his mouth and resting his head against it, eyes downcast in thought.

Several heads shifted between him and Bast, the others in the room not yet understanding the magnitude of the threat.

"The reactor exhaust system… and where is that located?" Tarkin looked up at his staff. "Anyone?"

Motti glanced around the room, failing to conceal his confusion. For him and the absent General Tagge, such a question was unanswerable, even if they could have consulted with their own staffers. As the Chiefs of the Imperial Navy and Army respectively, they had nobody within their spheres of influence that could provide technical information on the Death Star. It was Tarkin's Adjutant, Hurst Romodi, who was first to consult his terminal.

"Thermal exhaust ports are located in the polar longitudinal trenches, si-"

"And," Tarkin snapped, cutting off Romodi. "Where are the rebel fighters concentrating their attack?"

"The meridian trench, sir." Bast had a nervous sheen on his brow. "A... a polar longitudinal trench."

Tarkin raised a hand to his own brow and rubbed it with unrestrained vigour, taking as long as he dared to collect his thoughts. "I want an immediate report on Lord Vader's pursuit of the rebel fighters."

"Trying to raise him now." Siward Cass was bent so deeply over his console that he could have been sprawled across it and Tarkin wouldn't have been able to tell the difference.

The Death Star was in danger. They were poised to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. There were more orders to give; more steps to take; more questions to ask, but Tarkin couldn't think of what they were, and that disgusted him. They could be at the mercy of a lone snub fighter at that very moment and all he could do was hope that Vader was as prodigious in dispatching them as Tarkin had come to expect of the Sith Lord.

But, no, perhaps there was something that he could do… but it was unspeakable. It was an admission of defeat. It would be like slaughtering an enemy army to the man, then surrendering because he feared that the survivor was holding a blaster behind his back. Better to shoot him and be done with it.

On the other hand, there was that favoured idiom of Tagge's... ' _caution in the face of the unknown is never caution misspent._ ' If he made this choice, it did not mean that the Rebellion would not be destroyed the next day instead. When the choice was between the possible destruction of the Death Star and the end of his own life, and the chance that the threat would come to nothing and he would lose face. The choice was obvious, but painful nonetheless.

This was the right kind of thinking, the same quality of thought that had brought him to his current position. Not hubris, nor denial of obvious dangers. It was dignified, rational evaluation of the situation that would bring them through it, even if it meant losing face or delaying the inevitable crushing of the Rebellion.

"Grand Moff, sir," Siward said. "I am unable to raise Lord Vader. It would seem that he is still engaged."

"He's refusing the connection?" Tarkin frowned. That didn't bode well. If Vader was having so much trouble dispatching the Rebel pilots that he was-"

"No," Cass corrected him. "I'm unable to establish a signal."

" _What?_ " Tarkin turned his head so quickly his neck clicked. Vader was out of contact? _Darth Vader_ , Sith Lord, ruthless fighter and crack pilot, had been taken out of the equation? It was almost as unthinkable as the idea that the Death Star could be vulnerable. Whether it meant he was disabled, dead, or otherwise defeated, Tarkin had to assume was that - as long as he was unable to communicate with Vader - the Rebel forces must now have free reign to carry out their strike.

"I want him raised as soon as possible," Tarkin ordered. "I need a report on the defence before my hand is forced. I don't want to have to do something drastic."

Then the announcement came through from fire control - " _Rebel base in range._ " - and Tarkin's hand was forced.

A few minutes before, this moment was all Tarkin had wanted. He could feel the order pushing at the hinds of his lips. _You may fire when ready_ , or just _fire_. Say it, and Yavin IV would be destroyed. The Rebellion would be no more. The Death star couldn't possibly be threatened by a handful of snub fighters. He could still give the order. He should.

But… no. He shouldn't. Whether it was his saving grace or greatest shame, Tarkin knew what had to come next.

"Take the station down to reserve power," He ordered, the words poison on his tongue. "I want a full reactor shutdown."

Nobody moved, everyone looking somewhere between confused and alarmed, and Tarkin balled his hands into fists.

"I will not repeat myself."

For a few seconds more, nobody moved. Then the men stirred to do his bidding, though their actions were sluggish and halting. The room was filled with the chirping of commlink connections being established, and then the rumble of the men murmuring into their terminals. Those who had nobody under their command to contact continued to look bewildered. Admiral Motti appeared especially shocked, repeatedly looking at his colleagues as if unable to understand why they were following Tarkin's order. He seemed to settle his eyes on Zi Sturgist and Trech Molock who – as the Death Star's Chief of Navy and Army Operations respectively – were conferring on preparing an evacuation of the station's personnel. Judging by the Admiral's expression, he seemed to find the suggestion that something could require a mass evacuation the very height of absurdity.

Tarkin, for his part, couldn't understand why his staff seemed incapable of following his order satisfactorily. They weren't urgent enough, yet they were too loud. They worked too slow, yet he wanted them to stop. It was folly, and it was reasoned. It was cowardly, and it was sensible. He switched back and forth between these absolute truths almost as fast as the thoughts could manifest, and the result of this internal chaos was that he stood absolutely still, still resting his chin against his fist, ready to lash the very next person that spoke to him.

The wall lights dimmed, came back up, dimmed again, flickered, dimmed further. The readout on the viewscreen disappeared for a moment, revealing the window view of the gas giant and its small, vulnerable moon, and then reappeared at half the brightness. The wall lights flickered again and then went out, leaving the overbridge in the artificial twilight of the viewscreen and recessed emergency lights. Half the terminals in the room shut off, their backlighting fading out over a few seconds.

It was like the station was bowing its head in defeat, the disappearing lights its eyes closing in shame. Tarkin wanted to do the same. Perhaps in this darkness, it might even go unnoticed.

"Sir," came Wullf Yularen's clipped voice, a hint of shock in his voice. "The remaining rebel forces are breaking off their attack. They're retreating back toward Yavin IV."

Back toward what they should be a doomed world. What they should _think_ is a doomed world. Would they go back unless they thought otherwise? Would any sentient be fool enough to return to the moon unless they thought it was no longer in danger?

"No… they aren't retreating." Tarkin replied, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. It was too obvious to be a coincidence. They were making their triumphant return. Mission accomplished.

And even though the back of his mind was certain that there was some other explanation, Tarkin began to speak, one hand questing out for something to brace himself against, even though the nearest fixture - Romodi's terminal - was four meters away.

"I think-" he began, but found himself interrupted as a low groan filled the room. It wasn't a sound that just reached his ears, but a wave of vibration that rolled through the durasteel construction, passing from the rear of the overbridge to the front like an almost tangible wall of sound. Tarkin could feel it in the soles of his boots, throbbing in his eardrums, and setting his skin crawling.

As quickly as it had come the groan transformed, becoming a ear-splitting shriek, and the vibration became a violent, bass juddering. Tarkin wanted to clasp his hands over his ears to block out the awful noise, but instead was forced to splay his arms wide to keep his balance as the floor bucked beneath him.

Tarkin's feet left the floor, and he was lofted into the air, given a brief moment to be unsure if the artificial gravity had failed or if the floor had thrown him off. He hung for a moment before returning to the floor with some force - though it didn't feel as if he had fallen; more as if he had been floating, and the floor had come up to meet him.

He failed to find his footing as he came down, and Tarkin landed on his back. Only a last second curling forward of his neck saved him from concussing himself on the floor, but he was nonetheless winded, gasping for a breath that refused to come. Tarkin reached a hand out to push himself into a sitting position, but found when he did that he merely parted ways with the floor entirely.

Drifting up into the air again and still winded, Tarkin made an undignified show of reaching out to grab hold of something - anything - to anchor himself, but he found no purchase on the polished floor of the Overbridge, and indeed only succeeded it in pushing himself further away.

Then Tarkin was falling, not just down, but toward the rear of the Overbridge where the floor met the hind wall; toward the core of the station. He turned over as he fell, orienting himself to this new 'down', and saw the other occupants of the room matching his movements. Their shouts of alarm mingled with the sounds of heavy impacts against the room's console stands.

Ahead of him Trech Molock – who had failed to properly right himself and was falling back-first – crashed into a terminal and folded over it backwards with a pronounced, ugly crunch. Then he continued toppling toward the hind of the Overbridge, now falling like a limp ragdoll. Tarkin's attention was so raptly held by this sight that he realized too late that he was about to suffer the same punishment.

Tarkin reached out a hand in an ill-conceived attempt to cushion the blow, and had his effort rewarded with a sharp, brittle pain in his wrist as it was crushed between the fixture and his midriff. He bounced off the console, unable to grab at it for his injured hand, and continued his tumble. Off to the left he saw someone else crash into another stand, though their impact was rougher, their head and neck catching on the fixture and being whipped back as they passed.

The rear wall was approaching far too fast. He'd only begun to fall a few seconds before, and he had at best another two before he reached its end. It wasn't long enough to even think about what was happening. Had Tarkin been granted a few seconds more, he might have been fearful that - aged as he was - what awaited him at the back-cum-bottom of the Overbridge would be far worse than what had befallen his hand.

Then his legs brushed against the polished floor once more. A moment later, he was sliding down it as if it were an exceedingly steep slope. Gravity was returning, or realigning, or otherwise righting itself.

As the direction of gravity swung back around to the correct orientation, he was slowing, but not by enough. The heel of his boot caught against the floor and his slide became a tumbling roll, his extremities being viciously beaten against the unforgiving floor.

Tarkin was granted a single second more to consider his chances of surviving the impact, and then he collided with the rear wall in a crumpled heap.


	2. Through the Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin and the Joint Chiefs attempt to escape the derelict of the Death Star

There was shouting. Noise, but more so, pain. His head hurt and his vision was blurred. Had he been unconscious? If so, he couldn't identify the break – though that didn't say much; he couldn't identify anything at the moment. Falling, sliding, tumbling, _thud_ , pain. Had he been concussed? He was alive, at least.

Tarkin's limbs were splayed at all angles, or his brain thought they were. He was lying on his stomach, nose and forehead resting on the floor. That much he knew. Everything else - even such base senses as touch - were lost in a raucous din of shouts that Tarkin couldn't make out.

He made to push himself up, but a jagged spike of pain lanced through his wrist and up his arm. Tarkin groaned, and everything seemed to come into focus. He jerked his hand away, and the remaining arm quivered, then folded beneath him.

Tarkin dropped onto his stomach with a grunt, then rolled onto his back so he could grasp his sprained wrist. He stayed that way for a few seconds, sucking air through his teeth until the pain subsided to a dull throb. Then Tarkin craned his neck to look around.

It was a disaster. People were on their feet, moving about, framed in barely distinguishable silhouette by the meagre light bleeding from the primary viewscreen as it sat idle. Movement was good; movement meant life. What wasn't good were the bodies that they were converging around. Shapes on the floor that Tarkin wouldn't have noticed if he weren't also lying on the floor, where the angle of the viewscreen's paltry light outlined their edges.

There were three of them, and though he immediately realized the ludicrousness of the thought, Tarkin's first reaction was to wonder how difficult it would be to replace any member of his staff if they were dead. That much was indeed correct – if a bit pre-emptive – but the thought which had accompanied it was almost laughable, more like a product of shock. He had thought of how much more difficult it would be to delegate the Death Star's operations if any member of his staff had perished. As if there was any hope the station still had operability to be delegated.

Tarkin jammed his good arm beneath his back and pushed himself up into a sitting position. From there, he climbed to his feet. His whole body felt sore, but that he could feel it at all was marvellous. The battle – which had hardly seemed like one at all just a short while before – had ended in disaster, but the station seemed to be holding together and they were still alive… for the most part.

Cradling his injured wrist across his front, Tarkin moved to the bodies and their attendants. The toes of his boot seemed to trip against the floor with his very first step and Tarkin staggered, falling to one knee and looking for what had tripped him. The floor - of course - was as smooth as ever, and Tarkin realized that the station's artificial gravity was not pulling him squarely down, but just a little toward the back of the room. The entire room seemed to be an uphill slope, the artificial gravity now too underpowered to both negate the coreward pull of the station's mass and produce its own pull toward the floor. That didn't bode well for the state of the Death Star at large.

He righted himself and continued to approach the cluster of officers. In the almost-darkness of the Overbridge, Tarkin had to squint to make out the three prone figures, but finally he was able to identify them.

The first was a trooper; the one who had manned the eastern crew station. He was quite clearly dead; eyes staring sightlessly, limbs resting at awkward angles, his head lolling to the side. There was a something like a bone fragment protruding from the exposed flank of his neck, though it didn't break the skin. Tarkin thought it was him that he had seen catch his head on a console.

Next to him was Hurst Romodi. A long wound had been opened on his forehead at the center of a large bruise, and blood was pouring into his eyes and across the floor. Bast was attending him; dabbing at the flow of blood with the sleeve of his uniform. Romodi looked conscious, but dazed. He moved his head from side to side and made vague attempts to prop himself up with his arms, each time being coaxed back down by Wullf Yularen.

Tarkin's eyes slid to the third man, and there he found a piteous sight. Trech Molock's arms were twitching feebly, but his legs were splayed at painfully odd angles and completely still. His head was rolling back and forth, cradled in Siward Cass's lap. The communications officer was trying his best to hold Molock's head still, but was fighting an uphill battle as he continued to thrash. His eyes flitted to and fro in a way that Tarkin had only ever seen among the feverish. Small trickles of blood were running from both corners of his mouth and one nostril, streaking down his face and staining the legs of Siward's uniform.

It was a sight to behold. Romodi was stunned, maybe even concussed… but Molock was dying.

Motti was standing away from the commotion, a bruise marring the right side of his face. He seemed disoriented; blinking repeatedly and looking around, his eyes landing everywhere but on the scene in front of him. Zi Sturgist brushed past Motti, carrying a medikit from a wall-mounted first aid station, and the resulting jerk of surprise seemed to break his reverie.

Sturgist dropped to his knees between the two injured officers, opened the medikit, and passed a pair of bacta patches to Bast. The later took them in his bloody hands and immediately applied one to the seeping wound on Romodi's head, who gasped in pain at the pressure on the bruise encircling his cut. Sturgist then turned his head to Molock and his attendants, but he didn't produce anything from the pack. His fingers ranged over its contents, feeling sightlessly for something that might aid the man, but it seemed Sturgist knew what Tarkin had ascertained the moment he'd laid eyes on the extent of Molock's injuries; there was nothing in the medikit - or perhaps even the whole station - that could save the man now.

"Put him on his side," Tarkin ordered. "Make sure his breathing is unobstructed, and watch for any changes." It was the only first aid he could think of as being at all helpful. At best, he expected it would keep the man's final moments easier than they might have been otherwise.

Sturgist and Cass both glanced at him. The later nodded and said "Yes sir, right away." Then the two men gently coaxed Molock onto his side.

A moment later, Molock gave a wet cough and spat up a thick red substance onto the floor. Likely, it was blood combined with vomit or some other bodily fluid. It made Tarkin all the surer of Molock's impending expiration.

He frowned, and looked at Sturgist again. "Is there a splint in that kit?" he asked.

Sturgist looked around at Tarkin for a second, appearing confused. He took just long enough to process the question that Tarkin was about to repeat himself, then gave a small start and looked down at the inventory of the plastiform container.

"Yes sir." Sturgist plucked what looked like a padded armband and attached interface from the kit, and held it out to Tarkin.

He took it and put his injured arm through the loop hollow of the cylinder, making sure to center the band over the point at which his wrist seemed to be sprained or broken, then keyed the option on the interface for setting a forearm. Immediately, the band gave a hiss of shifting air and shrunk until it encircled his limb with a gentle grip. Then the padding inflated, consuming the entirety of his hand and immobilizing it. The arm was now essentially useless, but it would spare him from any further injury until they could reach a medbay, or… or what?

What happened now? The Death Star was crippled; little better than a metal hulk floating in space. Who knew how much of the structure was intact, or how many of its crew had survived. Would there be a medbay aboard still functioning, or a space that could be called stable enough - safe enough - for them to await rescue?

Well, the answer seemed obvious. The station was unsafe. Its gravity system was clearly only partially functional, and could fail or malfunction at any second. Its life support systems were already running on reserve power, but it was quite possible that they were damaged beyond operability, and the air they breathed was already beginning its transformation to a stale poison. No. It seemed clear that they would need to be more proactive. They needed to get a signal out that the station had been crippled, and then they needed to evacuate get the call out that would summon rescue ships for the rest of the Death Star's crew.

Tarkin looked down at the trio of bodies again. Romodi seemed more lucid, and was no longer trying to sit up. Molock's thrashing was slowing, but blood was now flowing freely from both nostrils. He was minutes away from death and suffering immensely.

"Sturgist," Tarkin addressed the man again. "Are there any heavy anaesthetics in that kit? Nyex; Symoxin; Comaren?"

The officer plucked a small applicator from the top of the pack's innards and read the label. "Ten standard doses, Nullicaine. Would that suit you, sir?"

Tarkin shook his head. "Nullicaine isn't strong enough. We need a narcotic."

Sturgist glanced at him, looking wary, and then rifled through the kit. Eventually, he produced an even smaller applicator and reported its contents to be Symoxin, five standard doses.

"That should do fine," Tarkin said, but then held up a hand as Sturgist made to hand him the apparatus. "Not for me. If you'd be so kind, please administer the whole quantity to Chief Molock."

Sturgist looked up at him sharply, surprise and alarm written across his face. "What?"

Tarkin ignored the disrespect implicit in Sturgist's brusque address of him, and gestured at Moloch. "High General Molock will not be with us for much longer. Ease his suffering and quicken his departure, for his sake."

The other man looked down at Molock, and a hesitant "Uh" escaped him.

Tarkin frowned at Sturgist, then plucked the applicator from his hand. "Very well then. Help steady his head."

Sturgist didn't comply immediately, first looking at his hand stupidly as if he hadn't noticed that Tarkin had relieved him of the narcotic. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and grasped Molock around the sides of his head. Through the combined efforts of him and Cass, they managed to hold Molock's head as close to stationary as could be expected.

Dropping to one knee, Tarkin used his splinted arm to pull the wrinkled skin on Molock's neck taught. He used his other hand to twist the applicator's end and extend its needle, then inserted it into Moloch's jugular vein. He gave the applicator's activation button five slow, deliberate presses, checked the readout that all five doses had been transferred, and then withdrew the applicator.

By the time of the fifth press, Molock's struggling had already begun to fade. After that his frantic thrashing quickly dropped to a feeble rocking, then a twitch, before ebbing to nothing. Molock's breathing slowed, became shallow, then hitched and ceased entirely. In the space of just two minutes, the overdose of Symoxin had done its grim, silent work.

Tarkin nodded a final respect to Molock's body, and then looked at Romodi. "Feeling well, Hurst?"

Romodi offered him a wane smile. "Not in the slightest, but I'll say yes if it'll make you put away that syringe." His voice was weak, and rasped like he was in desperate need of a drink.

Tarkin responded with an expression that was half grin, half grimace. "So long as you can walk, Hurst, I think I can stay these killer's hands." It was a weak attempt at humouring him, and it made Tarkin feel sacrilegious. But it was the one truth all military men knew; the closer one stood to death, the more irreverent of it they became. In a trooper's most dire hour, gallows humour could almost be called a tool of their trade.

"That's a deal I'd very much like to buy into." Hurst pushed himself up, and this time nobody tried to coax him back down. Even sitting up seemed to make his head wobble, though, and Tarkin gestured to Bast that he should help Romodi stand.

When Romodi was on his feet, swaying woozily but supported by both Bast and Yularen, Tarkin turned to Cass.

"We need to get a signal out and summon a rescue ship. A whole fleet of them, in fact. Would a communications centre still be capable of sending out a subspace transmission?"

Siward considered the question for a moment, then replied. "It's impossible to be sure until we try."

"Your best estimate, then."

Cass gave an apologetic frown. "I don't think it's likely. Subspace transmitters are difficult to properly harden against power surges. Those aboard the station not damaged by the reactor blowout will have been spared because the conduits connecting to them were severed instead."

"We need to get a distress signal out. The alternative is waiting for a search party to be dispatched days from now."

As if to accentuate the danger in that second option, a low groan rolled through the station, sending vibrations up through the soles of their boots that made Tarkin's legs tremble. Romodi's balance failed entirely from even that small disturbance, and he would have collapsed in a heap if not for the two men supporting him.

Tarkin steadied himself, and continued. "The commlink relays, if I recall…"

"Are not part of the emergency circuits, no," Siward confirmed, and Tarkin decided to leave the interruption unacknowledged. "Transmissions will only carry as far as the range of the commlinks themselves."

This, of course, was not a standard design aboard Imperial craft. It was another unique quirk of the Death Star's design; in a station so massive, the infrastructure required to keep systems functional scaled exponentially, taking up almost double the relative mass as the infrastructure of a Star Destroyer. With the expectation that any damage to the station capable of reducing it to emergency power would be so catastrophic as to likely destroy the Death Star outright, the design board had opted to omit lesser networks from the emergency power grid – such as the commlink relay system – so that the base life support and gravity projectors would function more reliably.

"Then start signalling," Tarkin said. "I'd rather we make contact with a functional communications centre from afar while we trek. Then at least we'd know that the Empire has been notified of our distress."

"Will we be… 'treking', then, sir?" Bast asked, apprehension layering his words.

"Down to the hangars, yes," Tarkin said, an amused smile playing across his face. "We need to find an escape craft that hasn't been dislodged by the gravity failures. Any shuttle should have a still functional subspace transmitter too, but it'd be faster, safer, and more sensible to deliver the message in person by that point."

Such a goal was more easily said than done. They were separated from the equatorial trench by several dozen kilometres and untold numbers of impassable or compromised hallways and turbolift shafts that would require improvised detours to surpass.

"We had best get moving," Tarkin said to the group at large. "We've a most unique journey ahead of us, and for that I'm all the more eager to be underway."

"Does that mean we're… leaving… Chief Molock?" Sturgist asked.

Tarkin levelled him with a steely look that – though unambiguously neutral – managed to convey the breadth of his contempt for such a foolish question. "Are you volunteering to carry him, Sturgist?"

Zi bowed his head in acquiescence. "My apologies, Grand Moff." He made toward the Overbridge exit, taking care to step wide around Molock's body as he did so.

Tarkin watched the officer for a few moments more, wondering if Motti had handpicked him just to be privy to the intriguing function of his collapsible spine. Then he too began to move, joining the rest of his staff as they exited the Overbridge. Behind them they left the bodies of Trech Molock and the eastern console operator, both given a ghostly outline by the dim, blank backlight of the viewscreen.

The strange cacophony in the constrained space of the hallway was not what Tarkin expected. He could hear snatches of words from Cass, who was talking quickly into his commlink. From the end of the corridor, past the open doors into the darkened conference room, came the sound of grinding metal, and jumbled radio tones that made the implant behind Tarkin's left ear give off little chirps and squawks of protest as he threaded through the members of his staff.

Though the corridor looked like a confused jigsaw of barely illuminated forms in the minimal emergency lighting, it was obvious to Tarkin that their deathtrooper escort – which was stationed outside the entrance to the Overbridge complex – were trying to force the high security blast door to reach them.

Another warble of scrambled communications pierced the semi darkness, and as Tarkin approached the source, he saw that there was a gap in the blast doors leading out into the hallway. The deathtrooper escort had made a valiant effort of prying the doors open, but they had only managed to produce a foot of clearance at the most; forced to fight harder and harder against the security door's hydraulic pressure with every inch gained. Under other circumstances, Tarkin would have considered that accomplishment evidence of unacceptable insufficiency in the door's design.

As he reached the front of the cluster, Tarkin's communication implant ceased its sounds of protest, and started descrambling the Deathtroopers' communication in to decipherable – if harsh and robotic – galactic basic.

" _Situation Untenable_ " one of the troopers was saying to Motti and the surviving crewman from the overbridge. " _Retreat suggested._ "

"That is that plan, yes," Tarkin said as he came to a stop, although he couldn't bring himself to use the deathtrooper's words. To call it a retreat was distasteful.

" _This blast door is obstructing evacuation,_ " the deathtrooper reported. " _Manual release required._ "

For obvious security reasons, the manual override for the blast door was behind a hatch on the interior side's wall. Tarkin gestured to it impatiently, and their accompanying station trooper was quick to pop the panel open and pull the lever within.

There was a faint, whining hiss as pressure was relieved on the quartet of durasteel panels. With some exertion from those among them who were still able-bodied, the blast door opening was widened to the point that Romodi could be escorted through without trouble, and they filed out into the corridor. From there, they started following the shortest path to the nearest bank of turbo lifts.

The quiet of the hallway made the mere rustling of their uniforms obtrusive – to say nothing of their footfalls, or Cass's intermittent hails into his commlink - and Tarkin found the near silence to be rather eerie. The absence of the faint rolling bass that a living ship produced was to be expected, but the lack of any voices from nearby crew seemed wholly strange. When combined with the oppressive darkness of the space, it made Tarkin think of an ancient tomb. It was as if the whole station had died in the attack, and they were the sole survivors left to skirt the silent remains of the dead as they made their escape.

Tarkin thought that he was closer to the truth than he had any right to be. If a short tumble to the back of the overbridge had left two of its occupants dead, the Death Star's long corridors would have become lethal falls of several hundred meters when the station's gravity had been in flux. As absurd as it was, Tarkin had to believe that an appreciable fraction of the station's crew had been killed or seriously injured falling down hallways, of all things. Indeed, their complement of deathtroopers seemed to have diminished from eight to five, with no sign of the missing men.

"First, we will need to procure protective gear, after which we will be proceeding to the hangar level," Tarkin announced to the group at large. "Any functional shuttle should make a suitable escape vehicle."

That was easy to say, but reality was rarely so forgiving. Tarkin hadn't exactly been in a position to measure the cant of the floor when the station's gravity had been at its most disrupted, but for several seconds the drop had been almost straight towards the station's core, which at the overbridge's more forgiving higher latitude had been a sharp angle along the floor. The station's equatorial hangar bays would have _all_ been re-oriented by almost 90 degrees so that gravity pulled straight toward the back of the hangar.

Perhaps fightercraft, secured in their hanging berths, would be largely undamaged, but that would require each member of Tarkins staff to fly in their own ship. One of Tarkin's hands was non-functional, Romodi was severely injured, and Tarkin couldn't vouch for anyone's piloting experience other than his own. Effectively, they were constrained to the use of a shuttle, which presented its own problems. Lambda class shuttles – such as his personal ship that Bast had alluded to earlier – and Sentinel class landers possessed docking clamps on their landing gears, but these clamps were rated to keep the ships in place when artificial gravity failed, or against sudden wrenching forces like a ship collision. They were most certainly _not_ rated for anchoring the ships in place when gravity had just tilted ninety degrees, and they were suddenly clinging to what was effectively a highly polished wall.

All things considered, such a simple request – a functional evacuation ship that could fit the whole of their party – was looking like a rather tall order.

They reached a security station at the junction of the corridor leading to the overbridge and two others – finding only a set of lockers and an unpowered security terminal that Tarkin was reasonably sure had not been abandoned by choice. There was no sign of the station's rostered crew, but he expected that they had both been thrown down the left connecting corridor when the reactor had been destroyed. As they travelled, Tarkin expected that they would eventually find points such as closed blast doors in high traffic corridors where multiple crew members – all likely dead from their falls – had collectively come to rest.

A deathtrooper opened one of the wall lockers and started pulling out some basic vacuum kits; sealing gloves to fit over their sleeve cuffs, couplers to cover the point where their dress pants fed into their boots, and thick quick deploy collars that would encase their heads in plastiform bubbles if a sudden drop in air pressure was detected. Not only was the equipment military in style, but it was obtrusively so; rugged and tactile – which was to say, a physical protector against the vacuum of space, rather than a projected atmospheric shield.

Inelegant it may be, but in their current state of uncertainty, the equipment was essential to insuring the officers' safety. Perhaps, once their current crisis was resolved, it would be time to review the standard uniform for the navy's upper echelons. When the risk of decompression was as heightened as it was on the relatively exposed bridge of a Star Destroyer, essential vacuum survival gear should not be an entire fumble in an emergency locker away.

When every unsuited member of their entourage had finished attaching the vacuum kits to their uniforms – the single accompanying station trooper substituting his open face helmet in the process – they proceeded down the left corridor, which led deeper in from the station's surface, toward a primary lift shaft.

The bank of turbolifts at the corridor's end was – like everywhere else they had passed through – dark, deserted, and eerily quiet. Here, however the silence was augmented by a dull, ambient sound that could only be described as vacuous; the faint rolling bass that accompanied a large enclosed space and the idle movement of the air within it.

Like so many of the station's lifts, this set ran adjacent to an over-large cylindrical freight shaft, and Tarkin was acutely aware that the only thing separating them from that cavernous space and multiple kilometre fall was a simple rail. Almost certainly, every person who had been waiting for one of these lifts had been flung 'across' the chasm and hit the far wall, likely surviving the moderate fall, only for gravity to right itself and leave them falling down the shaft to their deaths. That sequence of events would have occurred at every landing all the way up the length of the shaft, leaving a pile of literally hundreds of bodies at its base.

The entirety of this thought passed through Tarkin's mind in a few short seconds, but he was still having trouble grasping the extent of the devastation. The Death Star's reactor had been destroyed, or at least cracked open by the rebel attack; that much he could understand readily. That there would be some large amount of physical damage to the station as a result was also easily grasped. But that a ten second shift in gravity had killed off a large portion of the station's crew that otherwise should have survived the attack… that was more difficult to wrap his head around.

What was easier to fathom was, again, their own proximity to that shaft. Should the reserve power falter or the station's artificial gravity fail again, they too would be whisked out into the open space, and after that their deaths.

With that in mind, "Quickly," was the only warning he had for the others as they walked out onto the landing.

They passed the several standard sized lifts and approached the double-wide service lift at the end of the row. That was the only one that would accommodate their entire group, and regardless was the only one connected to the reserve power grid. It also traversed a longer distance than the personnel lifts; going below the lower extremity of the freight shaft and allowing them to exit into a service corridor alongside the station hangars proper.

One of the two Deathtroopers moving ahead of the main group as a sort of forward escort called the elevator, and Tarkin had to spend over a minute agonizing over the compromising nature of their position while they waited for the lift to arrive. With every second that past, he became surer that it would be that moment that the gravity gave out again, and they were all plucked off the landing.

Then the turbolift doors opened, and – with what Tarkin observed to be no small amount of urgency – they crammed themselves inside. As the doors closed and Motti keyed for the hangar level, Tarkin let out a breath he'd been unintentionally holding. His stomach dropped as the turbolift began to descend, the sensation especially unwelcome while he was so wary of the stability of the Death Star's gravity.

Even with its larger size, the service lift struggled to accommodate them all. Tarkin had to hold his bound arm across his chest to avoid it being pinned between Yularen and a Deathtrooper. At his other shoulder, Cass was still ceaselessly repeating his hail into a commlink, an unfortunate coincidence of positioning arranging them so that he was almost talking right into Tarkin's ear.

Tarkin furrowed his brow, and was only moments away from telling Cass to abandon the clearly fruitless pursuit, when the commlink gave a little squall of feedback, followed by something that Tarkin couldn't make out.

He waited for Cass to resolve the message, knowing that to enquire before the other had something to report would only serve as a delay. Indeed, Cass didn't respond for several seconds, still surprised by his sudden success.

"This is Communications Chief Cass. Identify yourself."

The response was again indistinct to Tarkin's ears, but what he could identify was a _very_ distinctive bass tone to the speaker on the other end of the line. No sooner had his suspicion began, than was it confirmed.

"Governor Tarkin," Cass said as the turbolift stopped. "I have a line of communication with Lord Vader."

"Give it to me," Tarkin ordered without hesitation, lifting his good hand to a place where – he felt fairly sure – Cass would be able to reach without having to test his aptitude for contortion.

With only some awkward shuffling and worming of limbs, Cass was able to deposit the cylinder onto Tarkin's open palm. Before his fingers could close over it, however, the lift doors opened and the device was plucked straight back off by a sudden gust of escaping air.

He lost track of the commlink in the ensuing chaos, as they were all pulled a step toward the open door, the officers' emergency collars deploying their inflatable helmets to protect them from the sudden depressurization.

Tarkin cursed as he stumbled, then righted himself. The world around him had become muted, the soundscape now dominated by his own breathing and the faint hiss as he was fed oxygen from the helmet's reservoir. It would seem they had finally stumbled across that which he feared; the Death Star's hull had indeed been cracked open by the reactor explosion, and they had found one of the many decks that had been compromised.

How many more of the station's crew – those who hadn't been claimed by the inversion of gravity – had found their work and action stations vented to space before blast doors could close? What force had contrived to ensure that all sections of the station they passed through were inert and dead; equivalents to ghost towns.

Looking around, Tarkin saw that they were in a utilidor connecting two hangars. The deathtroopers were checking their helmet seals, and the members of his staff appeared disoriented, likewise checking that their own emergency gear was secure. The expandable domes protecting them from vacuum had an unavoidable sense of fragility that was almost impossible to ignore and demanded constant checks. Romodi was sprawled across the deck, so lacking in equilibrium that even the moderate tug of their turbolift decompressing had been too much for him.

With no quick way to delegate the task now that they were prevented from talking by the vacuum, Tarkin grasped Hurst by the arm and helped him to his feet, then gestured repeatedly at Yularen until he understood, and took custody of his concussed peer.

That done, Tarkin checked around the hallway until he found where the commlink had come to a rest, finding it in, alarmingly, a dip in the floor. He retrieved it before that abnormality could distract him, keeping the channel open so as to preserve the connection that had been established. Until they could reach a pressurized area and remove their helmets, however, the commlink was effectively useless.

Then he turned his eyes on the hallway around them, trying to understand how what should have been a level floor could have such a depression in it as the commlink had come to rest in. He almost couldn't believe what lay before him.

Both the floors and walls of the corridor were warped, alternatively bulging and sinking beyond the clean straight dimensions of their construction. The recessed wall lights were shattered, glass fragments scattered up and down the corridor's length. It was almost more surprising that the durasteel framing hadn't shorn off entirely. At the passageway's end, a blast door had only partly closed, its plates prevented from sliding home by the distortion of the frame and tracks. That would explain the hallway's depressurization, as beyond the door would be one of the Death Star's innumerable hangars, the atmospheric containment shield – which should have been running on a dedicated redundant power supply - having also been compromised by the warping forces that had twisted the corridor so out of shape.

Romodi had to be helped over every irregularity, his footing far too unsure to navigate a floor that rolled up and down like the surface of a planet. For Tarkin, it was almost like something out of a dreamscape, or perhaps a surrealist art holovid. Once they had emerged into the hangar, however, the corridor was forgotten entirely.

This hangar in particular was empty, the shuttle it should have held having departed earlier that day to return General Tagge to his fleet. Even if the space had contained a functional and ready shuttle, it wouldn't have been enough to distract from their first view of what lay outside the bay's surface exit.

It was as if the station was haloed by an aurora, although this aurora was not waves of light, but comprised out of countless glowing particles that formed an iridescent cloud of vibrant blue. The Death Star's reactor core had been destroyed, and its hull split open. So too then had the reactor fuel reserves spilled forth, girdling the station's husk with a brilliant shroud of escaped hypermatter.

It was beautiful in a way that briefly made Tarkin forget about the disaster that had produced it. There was a gnawing thought, though, that eventually overcame his awe. Hypermatter – like antimatter – annihilated with normal matter, and millions upon millions of particles now wreathed the Death Star like blood spilled from a corpse. Escaping had just become infinitely more difficult. Perhaps, even, impossible.

Tarkin realized that they had all stopped to admire the view – that was to say, his staff; the deathtrooper escort were standing to attention, their training overruling the wonder that the rest of them had been unable to resist.

Chagrined, and hoping to brush over his own inattentiveness, Tarkin made a show of turning around to face the rest of his staff, breaking their collective fixation on the hangar mouth. His mouth set in a line of harsh disapproval, Tarkin motioned toward the opposing utilidor.

His subordinates began to move again, most of them appearing some degree of sheepish under their emergency helmets. Except for Romodi, of course, who was still feeling the worst of his concussion. Motti and Sturgist also looked somewhat dazed, or perhaps lost in their own thoughts. Tarkin stood and watched for a moment, making sure to drive his irritation home as he made eye contact with each man in turn, and then also resumed walking.

They crossed the hangar, then travelled the length of the next connecting corridor. Here, they were further away from the warped section of the structure, but the floor here was – like those of the hangar and other utilidor before it – was a roiling sea of swells and dips that made walking an exercise in frustration, and Romodi's concussion an even greater liability. Toward the entrance to the next hangar, the structural distortions began to smooth out, but it left Tarkin extremely worried crossing the threshold. This hangar contained his personal shuttle, and even if it would have otherwise managed to stay anchored through the disaster, he couldn't imagine it maintaining landing gear lock on a floor that was seizing and warping beneath it.

Tarkin stopped only for a moment as they entered the hangar, hoping against all reason that he could find something redeemable in the disaster in front of him, and then kept going. Now, however, he felt a hollowness in his gut. Perhaps it was desolation.

His shuttle was still there, and the docking clamps, it seemed, had held. It was the landing gears themselves that had failed, shearing away just above the foot under the sudden strain of the shifting gravity and heaving floor. Hence, the floor in the centre of the hangar still hosted the jagged-topped stumps of the landing gears, while the rest of the ship was at the very back of the hangar. Its three stabilizer fins were bent and twisted out of shape, while the main body and – more importantly - the cones of the sublight engines were dented and buckled. The ship would not be taking off any time soon.

It was so clearly a lost cause that, aside from Tarkin's brief, hopeful indecision, they didn't even stop to check the wreckage. Instead they crossed the hangar to the opposing service corridor, which would connect them to yet another hangar.

Observing how even here there were slight rises and falls to the level of the floor, it made that sense of desolation in him grow even stronger. It fed off of and back into a rising surety that there would be no way for them to escape the station's husk. If his shuttle – as carefully maintained as it was – had failed to stay secure… could there be a single suitable, operable escape ship left on the entire Death Station?

The next hangar had contained two more shuttles, both of which had failed and been crippled in a similar fashion to his own. All that remained was an impressive display of destruction at one end of the hangar, and the ever-impressive view of the hypermatter cloud at the other.

There, they stopped. Tarkin stared out into the iridescent cloud, contemplating the reality of their situation that was quickly becoming apparent. They would keep looking, because they had to. To do otherwise would be accepting the most bitter incarnation of an already devastating defeat. Eventually, they would reach a pressurized space, at which point he would be able to tell Darth Vader to jump to hyperspace without them. Help would arrive within a day after that – assuming the Empire was quick to mobilize – which would mean twenty-four standard hours of staying alive on a station on a crippled reserve power system. That was a long time in which the gravity could fail again, or the air recyclers could stop functioning, or the husk could come apart and fall into the gas giant's atmosphere. Stars, the Rebellion could launch a second attack to finish the destruction. If they survived long enough to be rescued, Romodi would have gone almost a day with an untreated concussion.

A vibration ran through the floor and up his legs. It was faint, and had no accompanying sound, but it was a reminder that they needed to keep moving. Tarkin turned to his staff, seeing their likewise disheartened faces, and gestured that they should keep moving.

They were almost perfectly between the two hangars, passing in front of the access door to another service turbolift, when Tarkin was first able to resolve the details in the small section of hangar that could be seen through the far blast door. He couldn't be sure yet, but the bright white material and what looked like diagonal edges were distinctly reminiscent of a shuttle or lander, rather than the walls of a hangar. Had they despaired too soon?

It seemed the others had been given the same impression. Without a single gesture exchanged, or even a conscious decision on Tarkin's part, they were moving at a brisk walk, and then a jog. He glanced behind, and saw Yularen, the surviving overbridge trooper, and Romodi bringing up the rear, the latter's feet only skimming the floor as he was whisked forth by the other two.

Relief washed over him as they reached the end of the utilidor, and there was no doubt left. Awaiting them in the hangar, still rooted securely to the deck hull, was a Sentinel-class landing craft. Its unsightly visage – that of an elongated and more rounded derivative of the more elegant Lambda-class shuttles that officers of their status were accustomed to – was nonetheless the most beautiful ship Tarkin had ever seen.

The forward entry ramp was down, inviting them in, and they wasted no time in covering the distance to its base and proceeding up into the lander. One of the deathtroopers took up a post by the exit controls, keying for flight ready once the last of their entourage – Cass and the rear guard deathtrooper – had entered the ship.

The ramp sealed, and Tarkin could hear the hiss of flowing air over his helmet as the hold pressurized. They waited until the flow stopped, and then collectively began to strip off their helmets and pressure seals.

The very moment he removed his helmet, Tarkin had to rankle his nose at the stale, sour odour of sweat that was sealed into the padding of the hold's seats. It was nothing he couldn't tolerate, and nor was it anything he hadn't experienced before in his time serving the Empire. Tarkin had never known a Sentinel lander to smell of anything else, and most Lambda shuttles carried a similar – if less pungent – musk.

Only those shuttles reserved for those of Tarkin's peerage – having never carried full loads of troopers sweating under the weight of their field kits - were free of the curse. Indeed, the private shuttles of high ranking officials often carried the smell of their occupants' preferred colognes. Tarkin's private shuttle, for instance, was imbued with the faintest impression of lavender – almost imperceptible, owing to Tarkin's preference for subtlety in his perfuming and personal grooming. Vanity to the point of obtrusiveness was almost as unbecoming as poor hygiene.

Tarkin placed his emergency helmet and sealing gloves down on a seat, Romodi crumpling into the seat beside it as he did so. His adjutant's eyes fluttered closed, and no sooner had he done so than he was set upon by both Cass and Sturgist, the two shaking his arms and patting the side of his face.

"You can't go to sleep, sir," Sturgist said, glancing at Tarkin as if expecting him to euthanize Romodi if the man did so.

"Stars, I'm so tired," the Adjutant rasped, making a feeble attempt at waving them off. "Just let me sleep. Don't you remember your aid training?"

"Do you, Hurst?" Tarkin asked, examining the man more closely. He reached over and lifted one eyelid. Even though the bright lights of the hold were shining on it, the pupil did not shrink. "Able to hold a conversation…but your eyes are dilated and you need assistance walking. I'm sorry, Hurst, but no sleep until you've seen a medic."

"Sithspit," was Romodi's only response.

Tarkin looked at the other two. "Do _not_ let him sleep. Am I understood?"

"Yes sir," both men replied.

He gave them a stern nod, and then walked back over the closed ramp, stopping just outside the doorway to the cockpit. Inside, he could hear the warbling of a deathtrooper's scrambled communications, but his implant was only managing to translate small snippets. Instead, he silenced it with a light tap to a module behind his left ear, and then produced Cass's commlink. He pressed the send signal, waited for the chirp to confirm the outgoing feed had reached the far end of the connection, and spoke.

"Lord Vader, this is Tarkin. Are you still there?"

The small cylinder was silent for so long that Tarkin feared the connection had been broken, or that the Sith's fighter was out of range.

Then the other's voice came back, his modulated baritone as distinctive as his characteristically concise response.

"I am."

Tarkin allowed himself a moment to feel relieved before responding. "My apologies for the delay. Parts of the station have been depressurized, and we found ourselves inconvenienced by one such area." He paused for a moment, but continued, knowing that otherwise it would only be an unnecessary silence as he awaited input that Vader usually refrained from providing "We've procured a functioning escape ship; a landing craft, and we should be ready to launch shortly."

"There is a suitable path out of the debris field, for now," Vader replied. "I will guide you through. Be quick."

"Of course," Tarkin said, and lowered the commlink. Only now could he dare to hope that they would escape that Death Star to continue the fight against the Rebellion – but no, hope could come later. Right now, he couldn't afford to waste time with dreams of retaliation.

Entering the cockpit and unmuting his translation implant, he found Yularen sitting in one of the astrogator seats at the cockpit's rear, and – oddly – Bast positioned at the pilot controls. The general was shooing away one of their deathtrooper escorts, who was suggesting that it would be safer if one of the escort squad piloted them out instead. To call the exchange curt would be a disservice, considering the method of communication employed by the alumni of the deathtrooper academy was already quite clipped to begin with.

Tarkin and Yularen shared a look of trepidation. He had never heard or seen anything to suggest Bast was an especially skilled pilot, and thought that – if he were – at the very least some small amount of hearsay would have heralded the fact. Barring the possibility that he was deluded as to his own skill, Bast must be at least competent… but would that be sufficient to follow an ace pilot like Darth Vader through the hypermatter cloud?

He considered it a moment longer, then signalled to the deathtrooper to let Bast be and seated himself in the co-pilot's chair.

The trooper hesitated a few seconds more before he resigned his pursuit and took the astrogator seat directly behind Bast. The matter closed, Tarkin keyed the lander's communication's panel to Vader's open frequency and shut the commlink off.

The three of them slipped headsets over their ears – the Deathtrooper presumably synchronizing his own helmet communicator to listen in on the channel – and Tarkin tested the connection as Bast went through the final steps of priming the shuttle for takeoff.

"Lord Vader," he said. "We're completing final engine start, almost ready to follow you out. Is the way clear?"

After a brief delay, Vader's bass voice returned through his headset. "For now. You must be quick if you wish to follow. The debris field is not stable, and the path will not be open for long."

"Acknowledged," Tarkin replied, and Bast followed right after.

"Engine is primed. Repulsorlifts are ready. Stand by for take-off."

It should have been a smooth affair, but then again, the Death Star should have been invincible.

The moment Bast shifted his flight stick the lander lurched and tilted to the right, a piercing shriek emanating through its durasteel structure. Tarkin grit his teeth as the dorsal stabilizer scraped along the hangar wall, then clenched his good hand around the end of his chair's arm rest as the shuttle juddered, then began to gimbal around the fore starboard corner of shuttle body, the screech of warping metal running through its frame the whole while.

"Put it back down," Yularen demanded, voice coloured with panic.

"I can do it," Bast retorted, face contorted in a snarl as he wrestled the controls. "If we can just… wrench… free…"

The shuttle lurched again, and again, until Bast gave a final heave on the flight stick, and the obstruction – a torqued landing gear, Tarkin was sure – gave its last squeal of protest and was shorn off completely.

Their craft spun away, its flank scraping along the hangar before righting and clearing the opening.

"Bast, pull it back," Tarkin hissed, certain he was about to tear the armrest from its mounting brackets.

"Right, right, right," Bast said back, his face so set with concentration that Tarkin wasn't sure if he was responding to the words, or just the sound of his voice. The general wrenched at the controls again, spinning the lander in a full circle before managing to bring it to rest. They were floating close to the Death Star, still nestled within the relative shelter of the equatorial trench. In front of them, the cloud of ejected hypermatter waited, ominous in its vibrant brilliance. The blue radiance of each particle was a dazzling spot of light that blotted out the space behind it, and each one would react with the normal matter of their sentinel in a strong and instantaneous burst of energy.

Bast – apparently unperturbed by their fiasco of a launch or their proximity to imminent death – pointed through the viewport at another ship hugging close to the bottom wall of the trench. It had the distinctive markings of a TIE fighter, but the unique shape of Vader's 'Advanced X1' prototype.

Tarkin nodded, and was about to suggest that Bast relinquish the pilot's seat before following the fighter out of the hypermatter field, when the deathtrooper seated behind Tarkin stood up and did just that.

The trooper lifted Bast out of the pilot's seat and pushing him toward the hatchway into the shuttle's hold. Bast, for his part, let out a grunt of surprise, but didn't resist, dropping into the newly vacated astrogator chair.

"Launch successful," Tarkin reported into his headset. "We're ready for extraction through the debris field."

"An interesting choice of launch procedure," was Vader's only comment on the fiasco. "Follow my lead exactly."

Without hesitation, and comparatively masterful handling compared to the meatgrinder they had just been subjected to, the trooper increased the shuttle's throttle and began drawing closer to Vader's TIE fighter. When they were close enough that Tarkin found his hand wrapping around his armrest once more, the fighter too began to move, keeping ahead of them by only slightly more than the length of the Sentinel lander itself.

Vader didn't provide any warning before beginning a sharp turn into the debris field, and even as Tarkin took a firm hold on his armrest that this time he would not be so quick to relinquish, he had to be impressed at how closely their new pilot matched the manoeuvres of their guide. After another three tight turns with particles of hypermatter streaming by at an unnerving proximity to the cockpit viewport, Tarkin had to admit that even if his arm hadn't been injured, he didn't think he could have pulled off the precision tail – in no small part due to the absolutely alien environment of the hypermatter field.

In this super dense minefield, there was no sense of depth or distance that he could discern. A close hypermatter particle was distinguished from a far one only by how bright it was. More than that, if – from their perspective as they traversed the cloud – those two particles overlapped, there was no sense of parallax; it only appeared as a single, even brighter particle that hence appeared to be dangerously close. If the deathtrooper ever gave into the natural urge to juke away from this trick of forced perspective, then they would be deviating from Vader's carefully blazed trail to safety and almost certainly end up ploughing right into multiple other particles, sparking off an annihilation reaction and killing them instantly.

So, even though it repeatedly and frequently looked as if they were about to dive right into a dense thicket of hypermatter particles, they stuck to the path Vader laid out for them. Tarkin could trust that the Sith's force senses would be a worthy guide, but it couldn't keep him from flinching each time death appeared certain, or banish the niggling worry that their deathtrooper pilot would make a mistake.

Tight turn followed corkscrew twist followed tight turn, many of them so sharp that they overcame the lander's inertial compensators and pressed Tarkin back into his seat. He had lost all sense of scale regarding the size of the cloud, and had no clue as to their position relative to the Death Star or open space. The only thing left to focus on was the silhouette of Vader's fighter against the brilliant backdrop of the debris field.

And then, there was an opening ahead showing nothing but the speckled black of open space. A few seconds more more and they were clear of the hypermatter cloud, the moment demarked by the subtle hum of the lander's wings folding down into the flight position. They followed Vader straight up and away until they had put some distance between them and the deadly cloud, and then turned. The shuttle entered an elevated orbit around the station to perform the calculations for a hyperspace jump and Tarkin was able to get his first good look at the Death Star as the station came into view. It was somewhat obscured by the iridescent glow of the spilled fuel, but nowhere near enough to conceal the extent of the damage.

It was a shocking sight. Large swathes of plating had been blown off – or more likely vaporized. A huge chunk of the station in the southern hemisphere had been destroyed – likely, it had been the section of station directly opposite to the point where the rebel torpedoes had struck the station's core, and had hence suffered the brunt of the ensuing explosion. Looking into it, he could see that not just the Death Star's reactor, but multiple layers of the station that had encircled it, had been hollowed out by the explosion, leaving the rest of the station essentially a thick, warped husk.

If the Death Star was ever operable again, it would be a miracle. But then again, that there was anything left at all seemed a miracle in and of itself. Had Tarkin given the order to fire on the rebel base, the Death Star would have been primed to fire at the moment the torpedoes impacted the reactor. Several dozen ignitions of the reactor would have stored enough energy to destroy a planet in the superlaser's massive capacitors. They would have been like a balloon fit to burst, and the attack would have left the whole station as a cloud of hot dust.

He was still contemplating that, and still absorbing the vista of durasteel grey and hypermatter aqua when the hyperdrive engaged. Any hint of the glowing cloud was blotted out as the myriad pinprick lights of the galaxy flared to starlines and then faded to the mottled blue of hyperspace.

Tarkin breathed a relieved sigh, and again he noticed a stale whiff of sweat creeping in from the hold. He would have grimaced, if not for the overriding sense that they had escaped

Of course, there had been a time in Tarkin's career that had consisted almost entirely of long flights in sweat-sour troop transports, and while the scent could never be called pleasurable, it had been so familiar and ubiquitous as to go unnoticed. Was he so long divorced from that lifestyle that the smell of a landing craft was now something that had to be tolerated?

Tarkin took a deep breath – finding that, yes, the rancour of aged sweat was still distasteful, but by no means unbearable – and then fixed Bast and Yularen with a tight smile.

"Call it unpleasant if you will," he said. "But I call it the greatest scent in the Empire; that of action."

And that it was. It was unassuming, unpleasant, and made one's tongue feel dirty if its taste was allowed to collect there, but it was the smell of troopers in action and boots on the ground. It was the smell that had both saved the Republic and built the Empire, and – if Tarkin had his way - it was the smell that would soon escort the Rebellion to a brutal and unceremonious end.

He settled back into his flight chair and began to think. There would be plans to make and fleets to mobilize, but first they would need to trim the fat from their own numbers… and Tarkin knew exactly where to start.


	3. An Endemic Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe back aboard the Executrix, Tarkin turns his eyes towards his next moves - both militarily and political.

Tarkin stood at the viewport, staring out at the speckled black of space. His body was a loose collection of aches and bruises, but he still held himself in the best approximation – that he could manage – of the ideal officer's pose. His feet were planted shoulder-width apart, back rigid as durasteel, his good hand held against the small of his back while his injured arm mirrored it across his front, carried in his new sling. Tarkin wanted nothing more than to sit, or lean against something, or just slouch… but he was still a Grand Moff, and the day wasn't over yet.

The void in front of him should have been perfect to lose himself in, but the bridge viewport – for the sake of better situational awareness – also looked down on the topside hull of the _Executrix_. Much as he tried to lose himself in his own mind, Tarkin found himself distracted by the glaring white arrowhead of the Star Destroyer's hull.

The _Executrix_ was the first Imperial class Star Destroyer – minted back when the design had been known as the Imperator – produced toward the close of the Clone Wars for use in live fire tests before the design would be moved to full scale production.

Though Tarkin had not commanded it for the entirety of its service, he had still stood at this viewport for the overwhelming majority, having first done so almost nineteen years ago. Despite its age and the signs of wear etched into those components that were not so casually replaced – such as the floors and hull plates – the Star Destroyer was still an impressive testament to the impeccable aesthetic of Imperial design.

With some pride, Tarkin had to credit his deft command with the most part of the Star Destroyer's excellent condition. He did not tolerate a ship that failed to reflect the qualities he himself strived for; excellence, and pristine function even under scrutiny. Much the same, he did not tolerate anything less than excellence in his own staff, either. And though he had put up with less than exemplary links in the chain of advisors he had established as his staff, Tarkin felt that now – in the wake of the most shameful defeat the Empire had ever seen – it was time to name these weak links for what they were, and push them out.

Tarkin shook his head, the thought reminding him of where he was and what he was preparing for.

He was due in the conference room – had been due five minutes ago, rather, but this was an occasion where Tarkin felt that it was best to be fashionably late; to let the members of his staff squirm as they tried to imagine the vast bounds of his displeasure.

When there was such an unpleasant task ahead, Tarkin felt it prudent to take a few moments longer to reflect on what was to come, and what had brought him to having to perform this duty, so as to perhaps glean some insight that would prevent a repeat offence. Of course, it was difficult to do so when one was finding themselves distracted by every little thing.

With some effort, Tarkin pulled his eyes away from the arrowhead shape of the Star Destroyer's top hull and settled them instead on his reflection in the viewport. His doppelganger stared back at him, more a ghostly silhouette of a face than a true double. Yet, he could see the distrust in its eyes. As far as Tarkin was concerned, the reflection never blinked – obviously, not that he could see. Two Wilhuffs, staring each other down, suspicious… but unsure of where to lay the blame.

Tarkin needed to be sure that, whatever the realities of the situation, it did not rest with him. What would be the accusations levied against him? What failings would be implied, and what shortcomings would be insinuated?

' _Your arrogance brought us here,_ ' he imagined his reflection saying. ' _What happened was your failing, but will you pay the price?_ '

' _The threat was almost undetectable,_ ' Tarkin found himself retorting, still within the bounds of his own mind. ' _The work of a traitor. There was no way of knowing._ '

' _You knew the Rebellion had the plans,_ ' his reflection answered in kind. _'and that they had sacrificed half of their fleet to attain them. Yet you refused to believe that they could pose a threat. You let yourself be blinded by the power you wielded._ '

That one, Tarkin hated to admit, stung. He had wielded authority almost unequalled for 15 years without letting himself be tainted by it, but it would seem that his first brush with the ability to destroy entire planets had been too much to withstand. It was better that he confront himself on it now, than have such an accusation thrown by one of his council – or worse yet, the Emperor. Still, he couldn't take the claim lying down. Not even from himself.

' _It was my decision that saved the station and all aboard from total destruction._ ' Tarkin wasn't proud that he had been backed into changing his argument by an imagined confrontation with himself, but it was a crucial part of learning from this fiasco. There would be difficult questions in his immediate future, and a flubbed answer on any one would spell the unambiguous end to his career.

' _Ah, yes, quite the distinction. From a cloud of hot dust to a hulk of useless metal,_ ' His reflection responded curtly, using that authoritative, subtly condescending voice he so often adopted when dressing down his subordinates. ' _I wonder, will the Emperor appreciate the distinction?_ '

' _Not useless,_ ' Tarkin snapped back. ' _Salvageable. Reparable. The station could still be the Empire's fist yet._ '

' _Perhaps, perhaps,_ ' his reflection simpered. ' _Yet I doubt that you will be so privileged as to walk its halls again. Not after what happened today._ '

Tarkin allowed himself a quiet, hissing sigh of frustration, and turned away from the viewport. He was disgusted with himself – specifically, the man that stood where he stood; not the make-believe caricature of himself that had managed to pick the flaws in his defence with such deft precision.

He used the walk back down the bridge as a moment to collect himself, raking his eyes over the command pits while he passed. None of the officers dared to look up, studying their consoles with an undue amount of scrutiny. Though Tarkin would have gladly taken an opportunity to unleash his fury on an unsuspecting member of the bridge crew, it was better that he didn't have the chance to. The true target of his wrath awaited in the conference room, and it would be a poor idea to expend his anger on the first man to step out of line; doing so would deprive himself of the emotional momentum that would be crucial in the coming confrontation.

Tarkin was intercepted at the transition point between the bridge and the security foyer by the _Executrix_ 's captain, Hindane Darc. The man came to a parade perfect stop and saluted.

"Your preliminary report is in transit to the Imperial Palace, sir," Darc said. "And the call for reinforcements has been sent out. Shall I make the preparations for the jump to hyperspace?"

Tarkin offered his longtime subordinate a perfunctory nod. "Yes, and send the final confirmation to the squad I requested. Once this bit of business is dealt with, I will send for you shortly so that we may discuss our plan of attack."

The captain acknowledged the nod with a second flawless salute and then moved up to the fore of the bridge to take the place Tarkin had just vacated.

Tarkin lingered in the foyer for a moment, making a show of checking the holopod for any held messages – though if there had been any, he would not have taken them until in the privacy of his office – and continued to the double doors at the back of the foyer and the primary tactical room they provided access to.

The doors opened at his approach, and Tarkin stopped at the threshold, surveying the room's occupants with a look that was carefully manufactured to be equal parts scorn and disdain.

The tactical room on the _Executrix_ was not as finely furnished as the conference room on the Death Star. Indeed, it was comparatively outdated. The table was a more easily maintained matte finish and the chairs creaked when moved. The rigorously maintained layer of polish on the floors couldn't hide twenty-two years of wear, though it still made a valiant attempt at denying the innumerable officers' boots that had trafficked it over that time.

For the first time since their initial transfer to the Death Star, Tarkin's staff sat at their established positions. One of their number, however, was present by hologram only, and more chairs sat empty than Tarkin would have liked.

His own chair awaited on the far side of the table, its back emphatically higher than those of the others. Counter clockwise to that was the empty chair that was reserved for Darth Vader, though the Sith lord did not make a habit of sitting when he attended the meetings. Beyond that was the Chief of the Imperial Navy, Admiral Motti, who looked sour faced and had a small bacta patch applied to the bruise on his cheek. After him was Wullf Yularen, a career Admiral from the Clone Wars that looked to have reached his career's zenith as an unprecedented double-title administrator; a high-ranking colonel within the Imperial Security Bureau and deputy director of the Naval Intelligence Agency. Beyond him was Major Siward Cass, the Death Star's Chief Communications Officer, and then two empty seats; one that should have been occupied by the late Trech Molock, and one that sat opposite Tarkin's chair and was left open for any additional invitees to the staff meetings – generally commanders of various projects being called in to give a report.

Going back around the table was Hurst Romodi, Tarkin's concussed Adjutant, then a dazed-looking Zi Sturgist, the Death Star's Chief of Navy Operations. Bast sat next to him his equal from the army branch, and the seat after that was held not by a person, but by a holographic projection of the Chief of the Imperial Army, Cassio Tagge. The last seat - that between Tagge and Tarkin's chair - was now empty. Until a few days previous it had intermittently been occupied by Orson Krennic, the director of the Death Star's superlaser project. Krennic's appearances at the staff meetings had been few and far between, owing to the man's own attempts to distance his project from Tarkin's oversight, and Tarkin's own disbelief in the superlaser's viability.

Tarkin appraised the trio of empty seats at the far end of the table, then his eyes slid back to the hologram of Tagge, who had departed from the Death Star between the escape of Leia Organa and the station's hyperspace jump to the Yavin system.

"So good of you to join us, High General Tagge," Tarkin said, looking the hologram up and down. "We had rather missed your company during the battle."

"I was… indisposed, sir," Tagge replied, his lightly graveled voice sounding more hoarse than usual, and slightly distorted by the hyperspace transmission.

"I'm sure," Tarkin said dismissively, finally stepping into the room proper and beginning to walk around the circumference of the table. "I'm very glad you could join us. I was hoping that you would be present for the rather… unpleasant… task ahead."

It brought him a grim pleasure to see every back in the room straighten just a slight amount more. The doors closed with the soft hiss of pneumatics, and Tarkin was alone with his captive audience.

"Gentlemen," Tarkin announced, chewing his words as long as he could to imbue them with the full weight of his authority. "Today has seen the greatest defeat the Empire has ever known, and one that it will not soon recover from. Every one of us, irrespective of our level of involvement, will be dealing with the ramifications of what has happened here for years… perhaps indefinitely."

The faces of his staff were a collage of furrowed brows and tight lips. Tarkin felt confident that in implying permanent damage to their collective careers, he had successfully hit a sore spot. Now, with the fear of a lasting blemish on their records planted, agreeing with Tarkin's assessment would mean that all but one of them could be relieved of that fear. It was a common tactic, but subtly deployed.

He paced around to the far side of the table, the sound of his boots slow, measured, and poignantly loud in the silent room.

"It is most unfortunate," Tarkin continued "...that the perpetrator of the treachery that bore this vile fruit today – the scientist, Galen Erso – is now several days dead. More than that, his overseeing director, Orson Krennic, only survived him by a single day more. Hence, the two most culpable persons in this fiasco have managed to escape a more official punishment for their crimes. More unfortunate still, is that it is now we who must answer for the damage done to the Death Star, and for our defeat at Yavin."

Tarkin had reached his chair by the end of his spiel, resting his good hand on its high back while he made eye contact with every officer in turn. Now, he sat and allowed his forearms to rest on the conference table, hands clasped. A twinge of protest ran through his injured wrist, but Tarkin didn't let it show on his face.

"And so the matter remains, to be answered before we face Lord Vader, the Emperor, or the Empire at large…" Tarkin swept his eyes over every person in the room before continuing "...of where to lay the blame."

Again, everyone seemed to sit up straighter still. Tarkin noticed that Romodi and Cass's eyes flicked toward Bast, who often suffered the brunt of the Grand Moff's ire.

"I will make no pretence of this," Tarkin said. "There is no question that this critical defeat ultimately took place under my authority. Yet, I also credit my orders with having saved the battlestation from an even worse fate, and everyone aboard it from death. Hence, I hold myself no more culpable in this matter than anyone else in this room… and so it is that I must lay the blame squarely on the shoulders of they who deserve it most."

The room, which had been totally silent up until this point, seemed to stir. As if everyone within it had let their breath hitch in surprise. Tarkin nodded his approval.

"Yes, there is a man among us that I hold more responsible than those around him." Tarkin surveyed the room and saw that now many heads had turned toward Bast, who had indeed failed to convey the true magnitude of the threat until Tarkin had inquired further.

Tarkin looked at Bast, and was faintly amused to see Bast's face now bearing a sheen of sweat. Others turned to look at him, following Tarkin's gaze, and the man glanced around furtively, refusing to meet Tarkin's eyes.

He let the silence hang for a few seconds more, watching Bast squirm under the collective watch of the other occupants of the room. The officer sucked a lungful of air, gaped like a fish while failing to find his voice, sucked in another lungful, and then finally managed a sound.

"I-I…" he stuttered, then faltered, casting his eyes around wildly. As Bast seemed to be making his third attempt at speech, Tarkin cleared his throat, and the officer's jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

Tarkin allowed the silence to carry for a further ten, long, seconds. He waited to the point that the others began to look back to him, and then spoke.

"Any attack made by the Rebels against this station would be a useless gesture," Tarkin said, his voice light and conversational. "...no matter what technical data they have obtained."

His staff were looking at him, confusion written across their faces. Tarkin ignored them, and settled his steely gaze on the incredulous Motti. When he continued, his voice was now thick with scorn and contempt.

"This station is now the ultimate power in the universe. _I suggest we use it_." The last sentence all but physically dripped venom. Tarkin stared Motti down, the other's face managing to spool from confusion, to shock, then fear, indignation and anger, all in the space of a few seconds. He didn't find his voice until the anger had taken hold.

"No!" Motti's voice was louder than necessary, and coloured with rage. "No! You're not shifting this onto me, Tarkin. _You_ were in command. It was _your_ decisions that-."

"My decisions..." Tarkin interrupted him in a cool voice, "...are not made in a vacuum. Surely you understand that, Admiral. Otherwise that would mean you were content to sit on my staff as… what? A spectator? You are one of my advisors, Motti, and you advised me very, _very_ poorly."

The room seemed to hold its collective breath after this accusation was laid bare. Motti, for his part, blustered, taking several seconds to respond, and only managing an over-emphasized "I, did, _not_." Tarkin was pleased to realize that Motti hadn't put any thought into the idea that the finger would be pointed at him, and was failing to think on his feet or produce a suitable rebuttal. All the better.

"Really, admiral? Do you mean to say that you did not take great pains to assure me that the Death Star was 'the ultimate power in the universe'?" He immediately held up a finger when Motti attempted to interject. "Don't bother denying it, Motti. You said exactly that. I wonder, though, do you still stand by that assertion? Because if you do, then I must ask how you would explain that a single snub fighter managed to, with only a set of skirmisher grade proton torpedoes, completely disable the 'ultimate power in the universe'. Did the Rebellion, with a relative shoestring budget and only a few hours at their disposal, manage to surpass an engineering achievement that took the Empire two decades and billions of credits? Does that mean that the 'ultimate power in the universe' is now a nondescript X-Wing starfighter, in the possession of our enemies?"

Motti worked his jaw for a moment, before uttering a single, stunned " _What?_ "

Tarkin splayed his hands, palms up, in a mocking gesture of commiseration. "I agree, such an idea is extremely far-fetched, but as best I can tell, that's the narrative you're endorsing, Admiral."

There was a moment of silence that followed as his mockery of Motti settled in their minds. A red flush was spreading across the Admiral's face, and Tarkin waited patiently for the retaliatory outburst.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Sithspit, Tarkin!" Motti slammed a fist on the table. I won't let you drag me down by just spinning some farce. That I was wrong about the station's vulnerability doesn't make me culpable for _your_ mistakes!"

"To the contrary, Admiral, it was my decision which saved the battlestation from total destruction. Had I not given the order to shut down the main reactor, we would all, at this very moment, be nothing but a cloud of cooling stardust. This decision, this _saving grace_ was made at the advisement of General Bast." Tarkin nodded to the man in question, who still looked extremely pallid, but also relieved. "He has, for all my previous misgivings about his competency, provided an excellent example of an advisor whom took all things into consideration and then warned me to caution. You, on the other hand, were blinded by your arrogance and the power of the Death Star. You disregarded the threat the stolen plans posed out of hand, and went to great pains to convince me to do the same. What mistakes I made leading up to the battle, I place the burden of them squarely on your poor counsel."

"You do, do you?" Motti growled, his hands balled into tight fists, and Tarkin was concerned to see that he seemed to be finding his footing in the exchange. "You blame me for _all_ of your mistakes? I don't recall advising you to task Vader with recovering the plans. When he failed to do so, and the Rebel couriers flew right up to the battlestation and were captured, I don't recall advising you to plant a tracking beacon on their ship and then _let_ them escape; to allow them to deliver the plans to the Rebel Alliance for the sake of finding their base. And when the Rebels attacked the station, I don't recall advising you to entrust Vader with its defence – a duty that, I should add, he clearly _also_ failed at. You think you can try make a scapegoat of me with those mistakes at your back, and I'll just ignore them? Just accept it? You're a fool."

Motti paused to work his jaw from side to side and compose himself, gazing coolly around at their argument's captive audience. "Now If that will be all, Governor… we have more pressing issues than your pathetic attempts to make me accountable for your flaws."

It was an olive branch, of a sort. Motti was offering to move on as if nothing had happened – or more likely, to delay his revenge on Tarkin for this indignity until he'd had time to plan it properly. Tarkin, however, wasn't done, and would not compromise. Motti was the most culpable for the Death Star's defeat, and Tarkin would see him ruined for it.

"That will not be all, Motti. This is not a matter that I am content to bring to the table and then abandon. Understand that I am not merely suggesting that you have made a grievous mistake; I am convinced that this pattern of thought is endemic to your style of command – a style that I now find wanting."

"Endemic," Motti spat the words back at him. "...to my style of command?" His voice lowered a venomous hiss with the final word. He was struggling to maintain the composure he had just re-established.

"Yes," Tarkin replied shortly. "In a matter unrelated to your poor counsel, I wish to call attention to your other questionable decisions."

"Such as what?" Motti demanded through grit teeth.

"Your decision to disperse the battle station's Star Destroyer escort upon its completion. As I recall your reasoning, you felt that it better accentuated the strength and power the Death Star was to exude. You felt that to have the station accompanied by Star Destroyers would be to suggest that it required protection, and that it could not defend itself from any foolhardy enough to attack it. So, against all tactical sense, you – the _Chief of the Imperial Navy_ , I should add - dispersed the escort. This lack of an escort, of course, was what necessitated Lord Vader to take the station's defence into his own hands. With both this, and your advice to outright ignore possible threats taken into consideration, I am left with no other option. The answer is clear, and unambiguous. You are unfit to command a fighter squadron, let alone the Emperor's navy."

The silence the followed this was deafening. The only sound that pierced it was the sound of rustling fabric at Motti slowly – so slowly that his aged chair didn't even creak as it was relieved of its burden – came to his feet and made to loom over Tarkin.

"I think you should consider your next words very carefully, Tarkin."

Tarkin was unphased. "I have, Motti, so let me be clear. Not only will I no longer tolerate you as a member of my staff, I will no longer tolerate your position as the Chief of the Navy. I will no longer tolerate you as a servant of the Empire."

"You're throwing me out the airlock to distract from your mistakes." Motti's voice quavered. His composure was cracking.

"If that is the only way you can rationalize being punished for your failure, then my conclusion is strengthened all the more. Even when faced with overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you are incapable of admitting your mistakes." Tarkin gave a derisive snort, waving his good hand in dismissal. "I have made my decision, and that-"

"You've decided _nothing!_ " Motti yelled, any pretence at restraint being tossed aside. "All this talk and posturing about your 'conclusion' is pathetic play-acting. You might have the ear of the Emperor and his pet monster, but you don't have the _power_ to revoke my command, Tarkin. Do you really think he won't see through this ruse?"

"The only person seeing through this… ruse, as you call it... is you." Tarkin fixed Motti with a look similar to what he might give upon stepping in a particularly suspect puddle. "One might be forgiven for thinking that the only reason you call it such is because you disagree with the consequences it prescribes. I have given my briefing to the Emperor in full, and certainly you will be invited to defend yourself. I have no doubt that when the week is out, I shall still be here… but where will you be, I wonder? Perhaps the spice mines of Kessel."

" _I will not stand for this!_ " Motti roared, bringing his fist down on the conference table with a resounding bang. "I will not be blamed for your trust in that fool Vader, and I will not be made the scapegoat for-" And then, abruptly, he was silent.

Tarkin cocked his head slightly, looking up at Motti as the Admiral took a step back. He had expected the argument to last half as long again or end with the other man storming from the room and being detained by the stormtrooper squad that would now be positioned outside. It was unlike Motti to rein himself in when his temper had been provoked - something Tarkin had been counting on to turn this exchange into a grandiose blowout that would do as much as Tarkin's accusations had to damn Motti's career.

The first clue as to what was really happening was when Tarkin noticed the faint, rumbling pressure on his eardrums – a sound which he had only ever heard in very select situations. The second was when Motti doubled over the table, supporting himself with one hand while the other pulled at the collar of his uniform.

"No," the Admiral rasped. " _No!_ " Each utterance was forced, and robbed him of breath that could not be replaced.

The doors to the bridge opened, and Tarkin flicked his gaze toward it, knowing that only one person could possibly be on the other side. He was, of course, correct.

Darth Vader, dark lord of the Sith, entered the tactical room, his cape a rolling black wave in his wake. Behind him, the complement of stormtroopers Tarkin had placed to arrest Motti watched his entry, blasters held across their fronts much as Tarkin carried his arm. Neither of the Sith's hands were raised, but there was no doubt what was the cause of Motti's sudden struggle for breath. Though it had been an infrequent occurrence, Tarkin had known Vader to perform his dark power without even moving several times in the past.

The doors closed once more as Vader cleared their sensor threshold, and Tarkin's staff made an awkward show of looking between Vader and Motti, whose respective whooshing respirations and gagging attempts to draw breath were the only sounds in the room.

Vader surveyed the room with one long sweep of his helmeted gaze, seeming to pay no mind to Motti's mortal struggle. Finally, he ordered the rest of Tarkin's staff out of the room with a brusque "Leave us."

Tagge's hologram fizzled out of existence immediately. With only a moment's hesitation to see if Tarkin would contradict the Emperor's enforcer, the rest of Tarkin's staff – those not sagging against the conference table as the life was throttled out of them – came to their feet and made a rapid exit. When the doors to the bridge had closed once more, only Tarkin, Vader, and Motti remained.

"Today has been a shameful day for the Empire," Vader said, his modulated baritone betraying no emotion that Tarkin could identify. "I am pleased to see that we have already determined with whom the blame lies."

"Lord Vader," Tarkin said, his voice conversational. "You're aware of the matter in contention?"

"In its entirety."

"Ah, very good." Tarkin nodded, then glanced at Motti as the man's legs buckled, and he collapsed onto his side. "Lord Vader, far be it from me to instruct you in the proper application of your… discretionary judicialism… but I was rather hoping that Motti would be able to answer to the Emperor in person for what has happened today."

"Such a discussion would be but a formality," Vader replied, his voice still betraying nothing. "Unless you had a vested interest in seeing someone else recognized as responsible for today's failure."

In spite of himself, Tarkin cracked a wry - if grim - smile. "You know me too well."

It was then that Motti's grunts of protest stopped entirely. What brief flicker of humour Tarkin had entertained vanished along with them, and he made a sharp entreaty of "Vader!" to the Sith Lord.

"Very well," Vader acquiesced, and a moment later the pressure on Tarkin's eardrums relented. A whisper of moving air escaped Motti's pale, gaping lips, but for the longest time there was no other response, and Tarkin feared that the Sith had killed him.

Then, Motti drew a quaking breath. The sound was wet and seemed to rattle deep in the Admiral's throat. It was unpleasant enough, and so much unlike any illness-birthed wheeze that Tarkin had ever heard, that he knew immediately there would be lasting damage.

There was a small part of him that felt empathy, perhaps even sympathy for Motti. However that rational side that had borne Tarkin to the heights of Imperial rule - and intervened at Yavin to save him from his hubris - knew that Motti only needed to survive long enough to be made accountable to the Emperor. After that, the mutilation inflicted upon him by Vader would be irrelevant.

Tarkin regarded the man piteously for a moment longer. He wondered how it must feel to fall from grace so quickly, and hoped that was not a hardship that he would ever face.

Then Tarkin thumbed his com panel, and Romodi answered after a brief pause. "Yes sir?"

"Send a medical team up immediately. It seems that Admiral Motti has manifested symptoms of some hereto... undetected... injuries."

"Right away, sir." Romodi's voice was ever so slightly sluggish, but he was as punctual as he had ever been, and made no allusions that would betray his true understanding of the command. Even suffering the aftereffects of a concussion, he was an excellent adjutant.

Tarkin closed the channel, stared at the panel just long enough to inhale a calming breath, then looked up and – he assumed – met Vader's gaze.

"Well then," he said, straightening back into his 'wounded officer' pose; slung hand in front, free hand held against the small of his back. "It's become overstated at this point, but it bears repeating. Today has been a dark day for the Empire. What do you make of it?"

"It is as you say," the Sith replied. "This day has been the darkest since the Empire's conception."

"Yes, well, that much wasn't in question." Tarkin couldn't bring himself to grin this time. Even for Vader, he had little patience when it came to cryptic non-answers. Now in particular, he had almost none.

Vader turned his head slightly, so that he was no longer looking at Tarkin askance. He seemed to consider Grand Moff for a moment, as if he could tell that Tarkin had been frustrated by his response, and wasn't sure what to make of it. Finally, he spoke.

"I believe that it will be the first of many dark days, some of them darker still."

Tarkin took several seconds to mull the prediction over, trying to figure the full breadth of what Vader was suggesting.

"The Rebel Alliance empowered, and the Death Star defeated so shortly after its declaratory deployment against Alderaan. The news of what has happened cannot be contained. The Rebels will have footage to use as propaganda, which will spread like wildfire when it is released." Tarkin's vocalizations faltered at that thought. He could already see it happening, like a plague of dissidence rippling through the galaxy. The mantras, the graffiti, the rhetoric packets. ' _Alderaan, avenged!_ ' would be the new recruitment slogan, and it would likely be an effective one.

"Sympathies for the Rebellion will be the highest they have ever been… and confidence too," Tarkin continued. Of course it would be. After all, they had stopped the Death Star. That made them a viable cause; a credible threat to the Empire.

There was something missing, though. Something that - upon glancing at the Sith Lord – Tarkin knew Vader was waiting for him to realize. Perhaps he had the first inkling of it, because he could feel a hollow pit forming in the bottom of his stomach. Perhaps it was the thought of Alderaan that had jogged his memory. Yes, something that had happened… while en route to Alderaan…

And the recollection hit him like a physical blow. It was an announcement that he had made himself; news that he had carried to his staff in the conference room aboard the Death Star.

"The Emperor has dissolved the Senate," he said, his voice yielding to the slightest hint of a shake.

The Dark Lord of the Sith replied with a simple "Yes," but Tarkin barely noticed. The implications of this perfect storm of missteps and mistakes still hitting him in waves, like salvos from the very Star Destroyer he was aboard.

The Emperor had done away with the facade that the Empire's constituent systems had representation at the Imperial Centre. At the time, of course, the Death Star had been unveiled, and was able to enforce the authority of the sector governors. They had no longer needed to pretend that the systems had some say in Imperial policy.

Now, there was no threat of the Death Star, and the systems that comprised the Empire no longer had even the pretence of representation to lose if they became non-cooperative. Indeed, with the threat of the Death Star being revealed and defeated in such quick succession, the extant Imperial forces garrisoning the many millions of planets in the Empire might now seem paltry in comparison. They might seem a force far easier to defeat, and something that should be thrown off now, before the Empire could produce a new superweapon to replace the one that had been lost. Worst of all, the Death Star's quick rise and subsequent defeat might even make the Empire seem weak, or ineffectual.

It was the equivalent to showing one's hand in Sabaac, only to have the cards morph to a losing set as they were being played.

Tarkin felt woozy, and he looked at Vader. "Little left to lose, much more to gain. Untold thousands will flock to the Rebellion."

The Sith only nodded, and Tarkin felt like he needed to steady himself.

"Stars, Vader," Tarkin intoned, almost not believing what he was about to say could be possible. "This could be the end of the Empire."

"Do you think so?" Vader inquired, the touch of conversational disinterest in his voice tweaking Tarkin's instincts immediately. It was so out of place as to be suspicious. Was the Sith testing him?

Irritation bloomed briefly in the back of his mind, and then Tarkin tamped it down. The newfound realization that the whole Empire now teetered at the edge of chaos was far, far more important.

"No," he answered with a renewed vigour. "We have worked too long and too hard for the Empire to fall around us. So long as I still draw breath, I won't allow it."

The pause before Vader spoke was almost imperceptible, but it reinforced Tarkin's suspicion that the Sith was gauging his reaction.

"It is good to see that your conviction has not faltered." Vader's already low voice seemed somehow even lower, and it was punctuated by the doors behind him opening with a pneumatic _woosh_ and the entrance of a quartet of medics. Unfazed - almost as if he hadn't even noticed them - Vader continued. "It will need to be all the stronger for the battles to come."

As the medics shifted Motti onto a collapsible stretcher and carried him back out, Tarkin took a final look at the disgraced Admiral. His ragged breaths and gurgling marked his path out of the room.

He wondered, in a deep, reactionary part of his mind, whether it wouldn't have been a greater mercy to fall by Vader's dark powers than to stand and face the hardships that were soon to come. Perhaps he had gifted Motti an escape that the rest of them would remember with envy.

When they were alone, Tarkin glanced at the dark and impassive form of Vader, then keyed his desk communicator. "Captain Darc, would you kindly execute the jump to light speed, and then join us in the tactical room? It is time to prepare our counterattack."


	4. Imperial Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin returns to the Yavin system aboard the Executrix, determined to finish what he has started.

Tarkin and Darc only returned to the bridge minutes before arrival. They'd spent the entirety of the journey deliberating over the minutiae of their battle plan, exacting over every detail. Vader had even offered some input, though his suggestions had mostly been disregarding flawed stratagems during the first brainstorming, and then making small corrections to their plans for the _Executrix_ 's fighters in the last hour.

As dictated, The _Executrix_ reverted to realspace in orbit of Yavin Prime, using the gas giant's mass shadow to pull them from hyperspace as close as possible. The planet's red brilliance almost filled the bridge viewports entirely until the star destroyer reoriented so that the atmosphere was – by their perception – beneath them.

The _Executrix_ , commanded by Tarkin, was the first responder to his own defeat. It had been the nearest Imperial capital ship to the Yavin system, and they were moving as quickly as possible in order to catch the Rebellion before their base was evacuated. Such a rush might allow them to catch the Rebellion when they thought they had a moment to breath, but as a consequence Tarkin had forgoed waiting the four additional hours it would take to even _begin_ building a battle group for their retaliation. Time spent waiting for reinforcements was time that the Rebellion could put to use evacuating their base. By the time Tarkin could assemble a suitable complement of capital ships and escorts, the Rebel base would be long deserted.

And so they were returning to the Yavin system with but a single star destroyer, escorted only by its own fighters, hoping to take the entirety of the Rebellion by surprise. It wasn't the most advantageous position Tarkin had held during his military career, but he had produced victories from worse situations.

"I want a wideband sensor scan," Tarkin ordered, knowing that one would already be underway.

"Just finishing now, sir," reported the officer at the primary sensor station. "No unidentified ships on our scopes."

No unidentified ships, but not none at all. The _Executrix_ may have come alone, but it was not the only Imperial presence in the system. It was at their aft now, out of sight, but Tarkin had caught a glimpse of the husk of the Death Star before they had reoriented for their attack. It was still wreathed in vibrant aqua; the deadly hypermatter cloud that would make all rescue, recovery, or escape attempts next to impossible.

He put it from his mind. "Very good. Launch squadrons four and five, and have them take up defensive positions. Then deploy squadrons one through three."

"Launch orders sent, sir," was the acknowledgement from the flight officer.

"And full ahead," Tarkin added. "We have no time to waste."

As the _Executrix_ began to move forward with a speed that was belied by its imposing mass, Tarkin saw a spread of two dozen TIE fighters – standard 'LN' variant space superiority craft – fall into two flanking groups. They were making an admittedly paltry attempt at filling the escort role that would normally be provided by two supporting Victory class destroyers, but even that was better than nothing at all. A single star destroyer approaching an unknown element was, for all its firepower, a consolidated and vulnerable target – a description that had only been reinforced by Tarkin's quick glimpse of the Death Star's remains.

With no supporting Victories to draw attention away from the capital ship, any engagement would see the _Executrix_ under sustained and focused fire from an unknown number of enemy ships. Hence, their tactical manoeuvres would rely heavily on their fighter craft instead. Perhaps this mirroring of the Rebellion's preferred tactic would afford them some greater defensive capability.

The _Executrix's_ fighter complement had been separated into three primary forces. First was the advance strike group; squadron one, which was made up of the ship's entire store of twelve 'TIE/IN' interceptor fighters. Following the same route at their inherently slower speed was the heavy strike group; squadrons two and three, comprised respectively of a dozen 'TIE/SA' bombers and their accompanying escort of twelve space superiority fighters. The third and final force was made up by their escort of squadrons four and five, while one final squadron stood by to launch and provide reinforcement.

At the moment they were hidden from the Rebels by the mass of Yavin Prime, attempting to preserve the element of surprise to the last possible moment. The _Executrix_ and its escort would round the planet, moving counter-spinward, while the advance and heavy strike groups tracked around the gas giant in the opposite direction, keeping close to the atmosphere so as to disguise their engine signatures within the radiation emanated by the planet.

With their superior speed, the Interceptors would be the first Imperial element in the system to move into line of sight of the Rebel moon, and would close the distance in half the time it would take either the star destroyer or the bomber squadron to arrive. They would either establish Imperial control of the space over Yavin IV, or engage any resisting ships.

The bomber squadron would be next, either targeting Rebel ships, or making bombing runs on the Rebel base proper, and finally the _Executrix_ would take up position in orbit over the moon, securing Imperial control over the sector, and allowing them to clean up what remained of the insurrection at their leisure.

Well, that was the plan, at least. It was often said that a single Imperial-I star destroyer could subjugate an entire star system without issue. However, such a claim entailed that the star system was a civilian one that was incapable of offering much organized resistance. The Rebel Alliance, however, was a military – ramshackle as it was. Tarkin knew that it would take a sharp wit, deft hand, and steady resolve to successfully neutralize the Rebel threat. If he could, though, it would be a start on exacting retribution… but _only_ a start.

"Rounding the planet now, sir," Darc reported. Even as he said it, a sliver of Yavin IV's lively green disc appeared around the edge of Yavin Prime. It was a beautiful moonrise; a precious marble of greenery and life in a deadly void.

If he had to, Tarkin would set it alight and let the whole moon burn.

He glanced at Darc, who had just finished a hushed conversation with his own adjutant. "Captain, do we have a report on the advance strike squadron's progress?"

"Slightly behind schedule sir, but nothing critical," Darc replied. "They have a confirmed visual of the target and are proceeding at full thrust."

Tarkin eyed the jungle moon. No sign of activity yet, but the _Executrix_ would have lit up every scope the Rebellion had. So long as they were the sole object of the Rebels' attention, they were proceeding as planned. "Then let's hope we provide a suitable distraction."

"Engine trails, sir," came the announcement from the scanner station. "It looks like a transport ship has just left the atmosphere. Trajectory suggests that it's retreating."

"Shoot it down," Tarkin ordered dismissively, and a few moments later there came the rhythmic chugging as the portside turbolaser batteries opened fire, pouring three waves of pulsing green bolts out into the deep of space over Yavin IV's horizon.

"Negative hits," reported fire control. "All shots evaded. Target is outside effective range, sir."

"Then we close the distance," Tarkin replied, voice cool. A single escaped transport was no matter. In short order they would be near enough to suppress any ships fleeing from seventy percent of the moon's surface.

"More engine trails, sir," came a new report from the scanner station. "Looks like two. Much smaller; not transports... scans indicate one snubfighter, escorting what appears to be some sort of shuttle.

"Hmm…" Tarkin considered that for a moment. A single fighter piercing their defences had neutralized the entire Death Star. Another small force – likely deceptively small – made him nervous. It was impossible that the Rebellion was actually sending an envoy, as such an act would be the height of stupidity. It was a ploy of some kind.

"Shall I divert the advance strike group?" Darc asked.

Tarkin gave him a sharp look. "No. Their role is too vital, and we mustn't play into whatever this scheme is."

The Rebellion must have detected the interceptors before the star destroyer, which meant the launch of these two ships were most likely part of a plan to distract them, and any danger posed to the _Executrix_ would be incidental to that plan.

Darc looked suitably apprehensive. It would seem that the hard lesson of the Death Star's defeat had not been lost on him, either regardless of his absence at the moment of revelation. "Then… we let the ships approach, sir?"

"No. We did not come to engage in diplomacy," Tarkin raised his voice to make what followed an order. "We did not come to engage in diplomacy. Destroy the escort, then the shuttle."

"Yes, sir," came the reply from fire control. "Acquiring targets now."

Tarkin watched as more lances of energy burst out from turrets at the _Executrix_ 's fore. These ones were far smaller than the two quartets of massive batteries that flanked each side the bridge tower, and there was no perceptible feedback as they operated. They were, however, still turbolasers, which were designed for combatting other capital ships. They would have great difficulty targeting small and nimble craft.

On his nearest viewscreen, the feed from a telescopic camera showed the shuttle and its escort. Several flashes of light cut between them, each one oversaturating the camera's sensor to a blinding white light. How the ships responded, however, was rather odd.

In perfect synchronicity, they banked port, turning further toward the star destroyer and ducking between the shots. The manoeuvre was an underwhelming but effective display of coordinated piloting… more than that, it was so perfect it looked as if it had been rehearsed.

It was too perfect.

"Again," Tarkin ordered, before fire control could report the miss, and the turrets at the fore – along with more, further back, released out their blinding shafts of energy.

On the viewscreen, the two ships performed another impressively coordinated evasion, juking port, then starboard, and then spinning around a concentrated flurry of turbolaser bolts.

There was no doubt now; one of the ships had been slaved to the other. The shuttle must be carrying some sort of payload that – if allowed to come near enough – would devastate the _Executrix_.

"Launch signatures!" came a cry from the scanner station. "Six, ten, two dozen- multiple transports are fleeing Yavin IV."

"Have the strike squadron engage what they can," Tarkin snapped. The transports were – as far as the _Executrix_ was concerned – irrelevant. There was some greater plot here; a sneak attack that the transports were using as cover. "I want all turret fire on that shuttle."

The following barrage that radiated out of the star destroyer's dorsal weapons was a veritable wall of turbolaser green streaked with ion blue. They formed a moving barrier of destructive energy that should have been as close to impossible to avoid as could be considered statistically significant. And yet, somehow, the two ships managed to roll and dodge around multitudes of gigawatts of destructive energy. They were getting very close now.

"Impossible," Tarkin hissed, gripping the side of his viewscreen fervently. Indeed, it well should have been impossible, unless the hand of fate itself was intervening to guide the pilot to safety.

A hush rolled through the crew pits from aft to fore, and though that was enough to inform Tarkin, the subsequent whoosh of an assisted exhalation left no question as to what had disturbed the Destroyer's normally flawless combat rigour.

Tarkin turned to see Darth Vader striding onto the bridge, having returned from whatever enigmatic pursuits the Sith undertook on the rare occasions that he made use of his quarters on the _Executrix_.

He offered Vader one of his ever-perfunctory nods, and then turned back to the bridge viewports. The dark figure came to a stop on Tarkin's right, silent save for the sounds of his respiration.

They watched another volley erupt out of the _Executrix_ , and this time luck seemed to favour the Empire. No, not luck. The impassive, impartiality of probability.

The snub-fighter executed an expert roll followed by a precision dive to avoid oncoming shots, but the slaved shuttle had no matching corridor of safety to pass through and was struck full on by two ion shots. Its engines died and it began to spin out of control, before being hit by several turbolaser blasts that transmuted the ship into an opaque cloud of vaporized metal.

"Now the fighter," Tarkin demanded. "It must not get away. Adjust the targeting solutions; begin with a wide-angle field of fire and box it in you have to."

He received no response, and was just beginning to wonder if the officer liaising with fire control was so absorbed in his work that he hadn't heard Tarkin's order, when the X-wing fighter executed a stunning hairpin turn and dived, weaving between shots all the way. In just a few seconds it had sunk below the level of the star destroyer, escaping to the far less-well armed ventral side of the arrowhead hull.

It took Tarkin a moment to realize his mouth was agape and close it. Such manoeuvres should be all but impossible. Even an ace pilot couldn't account for the sheer number of energy bolts that needed to be avoided. He had only ever seen such intuitive piloting from a select few Jedi during the Clone Wars.

Vader, it seemed, had come to a similar conclusion.

"It is the same pilot that attacked the Death Star," he informed Tarkin. "The Force is with him."

Tarkin didn't know how much stock to put in that explanation, but what he knew was that the pilot had executed an evasive manoeuvre that he would not hesitate to call functionally impossible. If the Force was the only explanation, he wouldn't question it.

"I will deal with him," Vader continued, turning and starting toward the rear of the bridge. "He will not escape us this time."

"Very well, Lord Vader. Take whatever measures you deem best." Tarkin again turned back to the viewports. "I think we've seen quite enough of lone starfighters defying the odds."

"On that, Governor, we are in agreement."

No sooner had he come, than Vader was gone again, his ominous breathing and heavy footsteps receding into the back of Tarkin's awareness.

He glanced at the flight officer. "Have Lord Vader's fighter moved to a forward launch berth, and assign squadron six to escort him."

"The whole squadron, sir?" The officer questioned, a touch of bewilderment in his voice.

"The whole squadron," Tarkin affirmed. "And call back four fighters from the flanks to keep pressure on until they launch."

"Sir," Darc said to him, his words both apologetic and so low as to not carry to the rest of the bridge. "Perhaps we should launch squadron six now and have Lord Vader follow them out."

Tarkin looked at him. "If it is – as he says – the Force, they will not be able to stop the fighter on their own, and will only be obstacles between Vader and his target when he joins the fray. It's better that he commands them as he sees fit."

Darc nodded once, and they both set their eyes on the forward viewport again.

More and more transports were fleeing the moon, and they were close enough now that Tarkin could see the faint glimmers of their engines as they fled. The even fainter flashes of green and red told him that the interceptors had fallen upon them… but something was wrong. With their overwhelming speed and firepower, the imperial ships should have been scuttling the defenceless transports by the handful.

As if to punctuate that thought, there was a brief flash of light as one transport was raked with laser bolts and destroyed. Another down… but it wasn't nearly enough.

"What is the status of the advance strike group?" Tarkin demanded, irked that the lone fighter and Vader had served to distract him the engagement over the moon.

"They've made contact, sir, but are encountering heavy resistance from a pair of fighter-sized ships and…" the communications officer paused. "…a freighter of some sort, sir. Apparently, it's modified with heavy weapons and is putting up a strong fight."

Tarkin allowed him a long exhalation of frustration. Surely that must be the ship that had been captured and then allowed to escape; the one that had led them to the Yavin system. The report had described it as sporting illegal modifications.

"How many transports have escaped to light speed?" He asked.

"Ten, sir," a scanning technician responded. "And there are another dozen approaching the edge of the moon's mass shadow.

There was a streak of blue light starting from near Yavin IV, and stretching off into the stars, visible for all of half a second.

"Eleven, now," the technician amended, a downcast edge to his voice.

Tarkin pressed his fist – his good one – against his lips, irritation seething through him. A dozen interceptors flown by highly trained pilots, in a deadlock with a single freighter and the dregs of the fighter force that had attacked the Death Star.

"More information. How many transports have been disabled?" Before he could get a response, Tarkin added "And how long until the heavy strike group is in range?"

"We count four ships destroyed, sir," was the report from the scanner tech.

"The bombers are approaching at full speed, Governor" the flight officer followed immediately after. "We estimate they will be in attack range in two more minutes."

Tarkin didn't respond, still fighting through a rising feeling of frustration. It would seem they had arrived just before the Rebellion had been planning to begin their evacuation. Hence, far too many transports had been already preparing for lift off. It was better than arriving after the moon was already deserted… but still.

"And… how long until the _Executrix_ is in attack range?"

"Nine minutes, sir." The astrogation officer's voice was almost apologetic.

Tarkin made no response but he was seething. This was not the stunning reprisal that he had hoped to have under his belt when it was time to answer for the Death Star.

"Sir!" The technician at the tertiary scanner station's voice was coloured with surprise. "We have a communications signal transmitting directly to the aft. It… seems to be some sort of hyperspace beacon."

"A what?" Tarkin asked, the question a reflex born of his surprise. "Where is the snubfighter?"

"Still hugging the ventral hull, sir."

Tarkin found that answer eminently unhelpful, and his displeasure with the officer was mounting. "Well, where did this object come from? And why haven't you done a sensor focus on this object?"

"I-I'm trying, sir, but the object is surrounded by a… a cloud of durasteel, and it's affecting the sensors. I-I should have more details… uh… soon. "

That let the pieces fall into place, the puzzle forming its hidden picture. A cloud of durasteel? The only possible source of an obstruction like that would be the remains of the Rebel shuttle that had been vaporized. The _Executrix_ had, of course, hit the small craft with several hefty turbolaser blasts. Hence – with the craft vaporized – it was next to impossible that the signal they were receiving was from any onboard hyperspace transmitter. It would have to be-

"The object seems to be some sort of cargo container, sir. Reinforced and… I believe it has an attached shield generator, but it no longer seems to be powered. Contents… one hyperspace transmitter. Looks like something ripped out of a frigate."

And so that was the Rebellion's plan; their twist to counter his. A hyperspace transmitter delivered in a sacrificial slave-rigged ship, to act as a beacon that would allow an incoming ship to drop in for a precise flanking attack. It had been visually obscured by the destruction of its carrier ship but protected from that same destruction by its shield generator. Its signal must have been broadcasting all that while, but with the _Executrix_ 's shields at full power to the fore and flanks, the transmitter was undetectable until they had moved in front of it. Of course, that was the crux of the plan.

"I want shields at full aft," Tarkin ordered. "Cut speed and bring the ship around. Target the transmitter and fire as soon as possible.

His commands were executed, the star destroyer swinging to port like a lumbering giant. If they could destroy the container quickly enough, the trap would be foiled. Whatever ship had been planned to drop out of hyperspace behind them would, of course, still arrive, but would no longer be reverting to realspace in the _Executrix_ 's blind spot.

"Portside turrets priming," announced the weapons officer. "Acquiring tar-"

And then a ship blew past the bridge viewport in a breakneck dive, skating so close to the star destroyer's hull that Tarkin couldn't believe it hadn't crashed into the surface.

It was the Rebel X-Wing, wings locked in the attack position. A second later, Vader's distinctive fighter came screaming after it at no less a daredevil height above the _Executrix_ 's hull. Then came the swarm of TIE fighters from squadron six, their curve over the bridge tower much wider.

It was a risky tactic. By hugging the surface of the star destroyer so closely, the pilot risked losing control or failing to account for the larger ship's movements, and leaving their last moments smeared across the _Executrix_ 's hull. However, it made itself immune to fire from the TIE fighter squadron scrambled to shoot it down by skimming beneath the star destroyer's powerful shields. Only a pilot as confident and skilled as Vader would be able to match the height and-

The fighter was beneath their shields. It was beneath their shields, and heading straight toward the portside quartet of heavy turrets being brought to bear on the adrift cargo container.

Tarkin turned to the weapons officer, and with a mix of urgency and desperation, he raised his voice. " _Fire on that transmitter._ "

The expression on the officer's face as he looked up from his terminal told Tarkin he needn't have wasted his breath. Tarkin's gaze shot back to the viewport in time to see the snubfighter skimming down the length of the _Executrix_ , a dotted line of glowing impact points demarking the path it had taken directly over the bank of primary turrets. Each one was stitched straight across by the laser fire.

"We have half of the portside heavy quad turbolaser batteries still operational, sir," the weapons officer said, his voice quavering. "Both toward the fore. It'll be ten more seconds before the target is within their field of fire."

With forced calm, Tarkin grit his teeth and reiterated his initial orders. "As soon as possible, Lieutenant."

There was a tense silence on the bridge as the _Executrix_ continued to pull around. Tarkin counted the seconds until the transmitter would be destroyed.

He reached six, and then the pursuit was rendered pointless.

There was a flicker of pseudomotion off the port bow, almost beyond the field of view offered by the bridge viewport, and a ship only slightly smaller than the _Executrix_ itself dropped out of hyperspace between the star destroyer and the drifting cargo container.

It had the rough shape of a cylinder with rounded conic ends, and was covered in many bulbous protrusions that were reminiscent of the fluidynamic nodules common on many aquatic species. Clearly, it was of Mon Calamari design, but Tarkin couldn't identify the exact model at a glance, thanks in no small part to how no two Mon Calamari ships shared the exact same design.

A half-size volley of green turbolaser blasts erupted out of the port bank, impacting the Rebel cruiser's own port side before it could raise its shields. There was a pause of several seconds while the turrets' capacitors refilled, and then they fired again. By the time the second salvo was arcing across the alarmingly small gap between the two ships – this time accompanied by fire from the numerous smaller turrets that dotted the _Executrix_ 's hull – the enemy shields were up. The shots splashed against them, sending out ripples of blue energy as they were dissipated.

"Centre that ship." Tarkin ordered. "I want all weapons brought to bear and a concentration point designated."

The Mon Calamari did not manufacture warships; this Tarkin knew. Likely, it was a civilian vessel that had been retrofitted with weapon systems. Such a craft would not be able to match a purpose-built Imperial warship blow for blow, but its shields would be formidable defences, allowing it to function as a durable anchor in an engagement that was dangerous enough that it could not be left unattended. With two of the _Executrix_ 's eight oversized primary turrets disabled, they might fail to punch through the vessel's powerful shields even if the combined firepower of every remaining turret on the ship was able to be brought to bear. With their current relative position, where only the reduced complement of portside weapons could target the ship, there was no hope.

The space between the cruiser and the destroyer was a flurry of turbolaser bolts, laser beams and ion shots, the shields of both ships both coming alight as they were mottled by the ripples of impacting energy. Tarkin had completely lost track of Vader and the meddlesome X-wing.

He turned to Darc. "You have command of the destroyer, Captain. secure an optimal targeting orientation and pin that cruiser."

"Yes sir," Darc replied, stepping up to the fore of the bridge. "Flight, recall squadrons four and five from the flanks. Have them sweep around to hit the cruiser from behind. Reduced Corulag Trident manoeuvre."

Nothing especially brilliant, Tarkin noted, but he couldn't think of anything better while they were caught at such a disadvantageous position. With its position on their flank and ion-heavy armament, the cruiser had the _Executrix_ in what was the starship equivalent of a chokehold. Darc's first priority was to break that hold before their shields were whittled away and they were left at the cruiser's mercy.

He waited for the flight officer to delegate the orders to one of his subordinate crew, and then engaged the man himself. "Report on the strike craft."

"The Rebels are still slipping the net, sir," the officer's voice was grim. "All strike squadron forces have engaged and the freighter has been driven off…"

Tarkin scowled. Not destroyed, but driven off? It was _just one_ ship.

But of course, that was no longer an acceptable way of thinking. The Death Star had been defeated by 'just one' ship – and that same ship had now returned to wreak havoc on their attempt at reprisal.

He shook his head, and then gestured for the other man to continue.

"They managed to disable or destroy eight Rebel ships, but another twenty-seven have escaped into hyperspace. There are two more transports still in the system, but they're retreating with the freighter."

Tarkin sighed. It was as bad as he'd feared after the previous report. Was it a defeatist attitude to call it better than nothing?

"Very well. Have the forces split off. Half are to remain and secure the space around the moon, while the other half are to be recalled directly to assist the _Executrix_."

The flight officer acknowledged the order, and Tarkin checked the nearest tactical display to get an overview of their engagement with the newly arrived Mon Calamari ship.

It showed the two cruisers, locked in their struggle while they slowly chipping away at one another's' shields. Also highlighted were the two escort fighter squadrons, completing their wide arcs around the skirmishing capital ships to strike the Rebel cruiser from behind. The turrets on the Mon Calamari cruiser's opposing side had opened up fire on the approaching ships, and Tarkin could see them being picked off at an alarming rate.

The standard TIE Fighters were proving less than useless; their lack of shielding not even letting them get near enough to close the Corulag Trident. He had feared it would be so, but what else could be done?

Some months ago, Tarkin had opted to add a specialized squadron of fighters to the _Executrix_ 's complement, and his first thoughts had been of Vader's Advanced X1 or the fledgling deployment of Grand Admiral Thrawn's TIE Defenders. Both were designs that were equipped with shields and hyperdrives; as versatile and adaptable as the Rebellion's favoured X-Wings.

However, the Empire's currently prevailing design philosophies demanded more disposable fighters in higher numbers, and hence there had been no hardier ships to requisition. The X1 prototype was, of course, one-of-a-kind, and since the Empire had lost control of Lothal, Defenders were still so rare that he could scarcely justify assigning a whole squadron to the _Executrix_. Tarkin had been left with Interceptors as his single option, and making the change had only served to swap one squadron of basic TIEs for substitutes that were just as flimsy and disposable, and only slightly faster. It was quite the shame.

He was seeing now that such a limited selection of designs would need to be expanded. It was just another of many military doctrines that would require renewed examination with his new perspective. The X1 was unsuitable for wide production and adoption, but the Defenders had been most promising - even a prospect Tarkin had once favored over the Death Star, when it had seemed that Krennic would be unable to produce a working superlaser for the station. Now the Empire had neither. How long, he wondered, would it take for Defender models to be ramped up to full scale production? They still had the schematics. Factories could be procured and retooled for the more complex designs. Perhaps the Empire could be allocating Defenders to its destroyers at scale by the end of four months.

Seven fighters had made it through the storm of defensive fire and were now circling the Rebel cruiser, strafing its shields with laser fire. Their attacks were focussed on the near side of the ship, attempting to divert the attention of some of the turrets there way from the _Executrix_. With the Corulag Trident having been thoroughly decimated, Tarkin thought it was a valiant attempt to salvage the situation.

And salvaging was very much what this situation needed, Tarkin thought, observing the graphical representation of the two capital ships as they continually moved in circles like a domestic animal chasing its tail. That amusing imagery served to mask the truth that they were engaged in an understated, yet vital struggle for dominant positioning and orientation.

The _Executrix_ 's design was optimized for focussing all of its weaponry directly downrange of ship's fore, and was also rendered at a disadvantage by how the centre ridge and sloped angles of its arrowhead hull that left any ship that was both on their flank and the same vertical plane out of the firing arc of a full half of the star destroyer's weapons. The Mon Calamari cruiser, on the other hand, lacked any general advantage – its design, after all, was not military – but its hump covered, ovoid cylinder shape lacked the ability to focus all weapons down the fore, and instead benefited most from what was generally termed as 'broadside' combat.

A star destroyer's focussed fire and need to maintain orientation to its target benefited from longer range, while a ship like the retrofitted cruiser benefited from a close range that would allow it to circle faster than the star destroyer could rotate, maintaining optimal broadside position while denying the star destroyer any orientation that would let it utilize the other half of its armament. These opposing strengths made their relative positioning, distance, and orientation more vital factors in an engagement than armament or fighter complement.

The captain of the enemy ship was clearly just as savvy to this balancing act, and had engaged Darc in a pitched battle for supremacy – or rather, to maintain supremacy, as the _Executrix_ had started the engagement in the losing position, and was attempting to wrestle its way out of the stranglehold.

The Mon Calamari cruiser was – essentially – orbiting the _Executrix_ , maintaining its position off the aft port corner of the star destroyer's hull. Such a position wasn't quite as optimal as directly to the aft, where it would be safe from all but the rearmost defensive turrets, but it was definitely in an advantageous position, and continuing to chew away at their shields with its ion weapons.

Tarkin stepped back to the fore of the bridge. "Having trouble, Darc?"

"They're reluctant to cooperate, sir," the Captain conceded.

"Yes…" Tarkin nodded, looking out the viewport as the Destroyer's rotation brought the ruby sphere of Yavin Prime into view again. He could see the very tail of the Rebel cruiser in the portside corner of the viewport, its engines aglow with full thrust. "…am I correct in thinking that the enemy ship is within the targeting cone of the aftmost port tractor beam projector?"

"Yes, sir," Darc replied. "But that cruiser-"

"Is far too large to be immobilized. Yes, I know." Tarkin waved his good hand dismissively. "But we can put an end to this pointless skirmish. Give the signal for a general brace."

For a few moments Darc looked aghast. Then he regathered his composure and nodded. "Of course, Governor."

Tarkin raised his voice to be heard over the low, moaning alert that followed. "I want the rear portside tractor beam primed and ready to lock onto the enemy cruiser on my mark. When the other arrays have the ship within targeting range, I want a lock from them as well. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir," replied a tech in the portside crew pit. "Tractor beam ready to engage on your mark."

Tarkin stepped closer to the bridge viewport and took a firm hold of a handgrip indented into one of its cross braces. He looked to Darc as the other man did the same, and then said "Sound for an emergency brace."

This time the Captain didn't hesitate, relaying the command into his commlink. A second later, a second siren was added to the cacophony; this one a high and keening wail to act as a juxtaposition to the first.

Tarkin circumvented the indignity of shouting over the alarm by also making use of the Captain's commlink, as he had no free, uninjured hand to reach for his own. When he spoke, his voice was kurt and perfunctory. "Mark. Engage lock on the cruiser."

" _Yes sir,_ " was the grainy reply. And then the _Executrix_ was jerked hard to port, its superstructure groaning under the sudden strain.

A tractor beam was meant to lock on to smaller ships – fighters, freighters, corvettes, smaller frigates – and either hold them in place or draw them close for boarding. However, it was well outside even the theoretical operability of a tractor beam array to fully stop something like the enemy ship, which was only about twenty percent shorter and less massive than the _Executrix_ , and hence had comparable inertia.

What was accomplished instead was a tethering of two similar-sized masses, which caused the mass of the _Executrix_ to slow the other ship – or pull it off course – at the expense of an equal opposing force being exerted on the star destroyer. In this particular case, although it was a rough manoeuvre that reminded Tarkin of the wrenching forces he had felt aboard the Death Star, it was exactly the effect Tarkin had hoped to produce. It was akin to creating an already hypertensioned elastic band between the two ships that slowed the Mon Calamari cruiser's orbit around the _Executrix_ , while the later was whipped around to face the former at a faster speed than it could yaw under its own power.

"Sir!" came a shout from one noncom. "Report from the hangar deck. A landing craft has been knocked loose by the manoeuvring and… and has fallen out of the hangar?" The last part became a confused question, and Tarkin had to frown his agreement. Surely it had to be the same lander that had delivered them from the Death Star, with its missing landing clamp and previously stressed remaining landing gears… but knowing where it had been landed, and combining that with the starboard inertia that had been imparted by their trick… he couldn't visualize how the lander had fallen _out_ of the hangar bay. Had it hit a starboard wall and bounced off?

There wasn't time to ponder it as the engagement began to change rapidly. One of the tractor beam techs announced that a secondary lock had been achieved, pulling the _Executrix_ around even further and subjecting the crew to another harsh starboard push. As the Rebel cruiser shifted toward the centre focus of the star destroyer's arrowhead, there was a flicker of pseudomotion far off the starboard bow, followed by a second over centre-port.

"Wake rotations!" came the shout from the scanner station. "Sir, we have new contacts reverting to realspace off the fore! Two frigates, danger close."

"I can see that," Tarkin muttered, examining the positions of the three ships relative to their own.

The positioning wasn't as precise as any commander would prefer, but hyperspace jumps were already exercises in interstellar precision, and exact positioning of the endpoint was generally impossible unless the reversion was forced by entering a planet's mass shadow.

However, Tarkin doubted that these frigates _had_ performed a long-range jump. The timing of their reversions had been far too soon in the wake of their tractor beam anchor manoeuvre. Their starboardward offset was likely a consequence of that same manoeuvre pulling the _Executrix_ to port.

The ploy was obvious. Now the threat was split, and Tarkin could only maintain tractor beam lock on the cruiser if he was willing to be surrounded by an enemy that now had both greater numbers and a stronger total armament than their own.

"Sir, portside tractor beam arrays are overheating from the overvolt of tethering so much mass. If we don't-"

"Shut them down." Tarkin waved a dismissive hand. "I don't think we'll have need of them again."

The tractor beams were released before he had finished speaking, and the Mon Calamari cruiser wasted no time in withdrawing. The frigates covered it, peppering the forward shield with laser blasts which seemed more meant to discourage pursuit than anything else.

Of course; the Rebel evacuation was complete – save for those ships that had been successfully intercepted. With no reason to stay other than the hope of defeating a star destroyer in open combat, the Rebels were retreating.

It was time to press the attack. They had the triad of ships on the backfoot and were no longer constrained by the struggle for dominant positioning. Tarkin couldn't imagine that they would be able to disable the cruiser before it escaped to Hyperspace… but the frigates were another matter. Just two days ago, at Scarif, he had seen a Nebulon B with retreat-oriented shields practically melt under sustained fire from an Imperial star destroyer at its fore. Surely, with some focussed fire, the _Executrix_ could do the same.

"Target the starboard frigate and destroy it," Tarkin ordered. "Then the other, if you can. The Rebels must be taught the cost of continued defiance."

The starboard weapons opened up immediately, sending targeted lances out at the frigate to stress its shields. The _Executrix_ began to reorient so that the rest of its armament could be brought to bear – doing so successfully for the first time since the cruiser had launched its ambush.

As the cruiser and other frigate increased their distance from the star destroyer, the target of the _Executrix_ 's wrath began to lag, ailing as energy was pulled from the engines to its aft shields. It seemed inevitable that the frigate would fall under the onslaught of lasers being poured into it, but its end came far sooner than Tarkin had expected.

With a soundless flash, the frigate split into two, its spine snapping like a twig underfoot at the Carrion Plateau.

Tarkin blinked twice, wondering if this unexplained destruction was the crux of some new trap. Then his worries were soothed as Darth Vader's TIE fighter came screaming through the point of the break from the other side. Following right behind him was what looked to be most – but not all – of his escort squadron, and the returning reinforcements from the strike groups. With the frigate's shields oriented toward the _Executrix_ , the combined firepower of the numerous fighters and handful of bombers had sliced right through what minor shielding remained on the other side – and, indeed, the ship itself.

Darc redirected fire toward the increasingly distant duo of cruiser and surviving frigate, but Tarkin knew neither would succumb to their volleys at the range that now separated the two forces. Vader's now bloated swarm of fighters had just rounded on the pair of Rebel ships and begun to close the gap when the smaller of their quarry jumped to hyperspace, the cruiser following it out only two seconds later.

The _Executrix_ sat alone in the Yavin system – that was, alone save for the husk of the Death Star and the wrecks of the destroyed Rebel ships. They had established Imperial dominance in the system, but it had been hard won.

It wasn't the fantastic reprisal that Tarkin had hoped for… or perhaps expected… but it was certainly a qualified success. They hadn't managed to stop the Rebel evacuation, although that seemed to owe to poor timing more than anything else. They had managed to destroy a quarter of the Rebel transports escaping the system, though, along with a frigate. When all was said and done, it was a better outcome than they would have had arriving even thirty minutes later.

There were questions that he needed answered. Had they truly happened to enter the system mere minutes before the Rebellion had planned to begin evacuating their base? Had the trap of positioning a hyperspace transmitter behind the _Executrix_ been one planned in advance, or had it been cobbled together when their forces had been revealed? In that case, had the Mon Calamari cruiser been already inbound to assist in the evacuation, or had it been lying in wait in a nearby system specifically to ambush any Imperial reprisal? That same question, again, could be applied to the two frigates, whose arrivals had been even more precisely timed than the cruiser. Tarkin was also curious as to whether Darth Vader had triumphed over the troublesome Rebel pilot.

All these questions ran through Tarkin's mind as the _Executrix_ moved into position over Yavin IV. He watched alternatively through the viewport and tactical displays as the fighters fanned out and took up defensive positions around the remains of the frigate and transports. Some of the transports might have survivors, and the frigate certainly would. All would need to be taken in, interrogated, and imprisoned until they were deemed disposable.

Their prize awaited somewhere below, it's exact location still being calculated by mapping the origin point of the many escaped transports' trajectories. It was a paltry one compared to what Tarkin had anticipated less than a day before, but the abandoned base could reveal key details of the Rebellion's plans, bases, and sympathisers. Anything that might have been left behind in the hurried evacuation could contain vital information; a forgotten datapad in some corner might be the most valuable item on the whole moon.

"What is the estimated time of arrival for our reinforcements?" he asked.

"Just over three hours, sir," the communications tech answered.

"I want vigilant fighter patrols until they arrive," Tarkin said. "There's every possibility that the Rebellion may have a third force on the way."

"Governor Tarkin," a voice rasped from behind him. "May I have a few moments of your time?"

"Hmm?" He turned away from the viewport, and was surprised to find Romodi walking up the length of the bridge, supporting himself on a crutch.

Tarkin perked an eyebrow, surprised. "Hurst. You should be resting."

"Hard to rest with all this excitement." Romodi motioned toward Yavin IV. "Though it seems you've made tidy work of it."

"Not tidy enough, unfortunately." Tarkin grimaced. "What's dragged you up here, Hurst?"

"My duties, unfortunately." Romodi gave him an apologetic smile, and handed over the datapad. "We have a priority signal from the Imperial Centre."

Tarkin felt his stomach turn over. This was it; the call to answer for the Death Star. He ran his eyes over the message, but Hurst's report was much the same.

"The Emperor has commanded that Both Lord Vader and yourself are to present yourselves at the Imperial Palace, immediately," Romodi said. "All other priorities are secondary."

Tarkin frowned, reading the final line again. All other priorities were secondary…

In the past, his summons to Coruscant – or the Imperial Centre, as it was now called – had been posed as requests. Of course, such requests could only be refused with the most robust of excuses and at his own peril, but the option had been there. It was an order. Just that was enough to convey… perhaps not the depth, but at least the breadth of the Emperor's displeasure.

"Well then," he said, failing to muster anything better.

"Well then," Romodi echoed.

Tarkin handed the datapad back. "We'll need to have Motti moved to a shuttle. I want him to answer personally for his failings. You just came from the medbay, yes?"

"Uh… yes, Governor." Confusion flitted across Romodi's face.

"What?" Tarkin's stomach turned over yet again. "What is it?"

"Were you going to… ask after Motti, sir?" his Adjutant asked, voice turning apprehensive.

"I was." Tarkin's voice took on a low pitch as he tried to mask his own apprehension. "Why?"

"Well, I wouldn't know." Romodi's face was a mask of regret. "Motti was relocated during the battle. Admiral Sturgist told his guard that it was at your orders."

"Sturgist, Motti's _subordinate_? _When?_ " Tarkin demanded, taking a step closer to the other man. "How long ago? Before the brace warnings?"

"Yes, Governor. Several minutes before." Hurst hesitated. "I… I'm sorry."

Tarkin turned to Darc, who returned his concerned look in equal measures.

"The landing craft." The Captain muttered, and Tarkin nodded.

"Scanners, hangar control," Tarkin snapped, turning toward the back of the bridge. "What is the current location of the object that fell out of the hangar bay?"

After a brief pause and murmured conference, the lead scanner tech announced "I don't have anything on my scopes, sir. We're not sure where it's gone."

"Was it not tracked after being dislodged?" Darc asked, frustration colouring his words.

"I'm sorry, sir. It was deemed a lesser priority," the tech apologized. "During the height of the battle-"

"I believe if you review the logs from the scanners…" Tarkin interrupted him, uninterested in his excuses. "…you may find an unexpected spike in Cronau radiation. Pay particular attention to the seconds after the enemy ships jumped to hyperspace, where a smaller spike might be less obvious."

"We'll do a thorough search, Governor," the tech responded with a sharp salute, before turning to his console.

Tarkin pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and then looked back to Darc, his eyes flitting between the Captain and the jungle moon visible through the viewport behind him. "I want an equally thorough search of the ship. If Motti is still aboard, I want him found and secured aboard my shuttle before we depart for the Imperial Centre."

"Yes sir," Darc nodded.

"When that is completed, you are to begin rounding up and detaining Rebel survivors from the battle," Tarkin continued. "Interrogation can wait until after every inch of the Rebel base has been scrubbed for information."

"Yes sir," the Captain repeated.

"And I want progress updates every three hours. Urgent information should be forwarded immediately. Any results from the search for Motti are to be passed on the moment you have them. Is that understood?"

That was already a defeatist order. It assumed that Motti wouldn't be found before Tarkin's shuttle departed. He knew full well, of course, that the newly disgraced Admiral wouldn't be anywhere aboard the _Executrix._ One did not escape captivity by using half measures.

"Yes sir," Darc said a third time.

"Very good. Then I'll take my leave. I'll await Lord Vader's return in the hangar, and we'll proceed to the Imperial Centre as soon as we are able. You have the bridge, Captain Darc. Leave no stone unturned."

"Very good, sir. Thank you." Darc offered a sharp salute, which Tarkin returned, before pivoting and beginning to walk down the length of the ship. His subordinate was highly skilled at reading Tarkin's mood and knowing when to cut all frivolous exchange in favour of clipped military jargon, as he had done so now.

But it seemed that Motti's subordinate was just as astute. Tarkin didn't think Sturgist could have acted on orders while his superior was under guard, which meant he must have taken the initiative in ferrying Motti out of the medbay. It had concerning implications for where the true loyalties of some of the Joint Chiefs may lie – or even high-ranking members of the Imperial Navy. Tarkin could vividly picture the horrified look on Sturgist's face when he had given the order to euthanize Trech Molock, and wondered if that had been one of the factors that had galvanized this treachery.

Where would they go? What, exactly, was the point in such defiance? Sturgist had still held a prominent position in the Joint Chiefs, and he likely would have been a temporary replacement for Motti as the Chief of the Navy – which could well have become a permanent posting if he had performed the role satisfactorily. Now that was all tossed aside… to what end?

Too many troubling events had come to pass in the last hour alone – putting aside entirely the defeat of the Death Star just a few more hours before – and Tarkin was struggling to see where it would all lead. He could say with certainty that the Rebellion would live on, and would now have the opportunity to capitalize on the new glut of sympathy that would be sweeping the galaxy. But Tarkin also worried that Motti's escape might have complicated things to a far greater degree – though how, he wasn't sure… but the odds that he would come to curse the admirals' escape seemed very high indeed.

Tarkin paused at the threshold between the bridge and the security annex. He turned to Romodi, who had accompanied his slow walk.

"I'm sorry, Wilhuff," Romodi repeated. "I knew something seemed wrong, but I didn't try to stop them."

"And in doing so, you perhaps avoided being shot," Tarkin said. "Stay here, Hurst. Rest up, and be liberal with the bacta. I believe things are going to become much more complex after this, and I'll need you back in top shape."

"Yes, Governor. I will." Romodi said. "Best of luck, sir."

Tarkin continued out of the bridge, adding a bleak afterthought to his words.

He would need his adjutant back at peak performance, but that was, of course, only if Tarkin was still in any position to make use of him after visiting the Imperial Palace. With Motti disappeared, Tarkin thought that had suddenly become a very big 'if'.

Tarkin stepped into the turbolift that would deliver him to the hangar level. Once the door had closed and he was alone, Tarkin gave a weary sigh and leaned against the nearest wall. Perhaps, at least, Vader might have found some success.


	5. For the Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin and Vader are called back to Imperial Center to answer for their failures

The atmosphere in the shuttle was a sour one, its two principle occupants both in foul moods.

Tarkin was reflecting on the Rebellion's successful ploy to stave off their reprisal, and Vader – he was reasonably sure – was stewing over the fighter pilot that had been instrumental in that subterfuge. The Sith had not deigned to recount his part of the engagement, but the after-action reports filed by the squadron leaders confirmed that the Rebel fighter had escaped to hyperspace alongside the rogue cruiser.

So it would seem Vader was brooding, although such a literal definition did poor justice to the very real latent wrath that the Sith was internalizing. Tarkin, for his part, wasn't 'sulking' – though he supposed that if forced to describe it, Vader would claim the same of himself – but he was angry and filled with a medley of apprehension and frustration.

The shuttle hold was a mottle of military colours. Tarkin wore his grey-green officers' uniform and sat direct opposite to Vader, who was of course, encased entirely in polished black. Sitting on either side of them were six-man contingents of their respective guards; Tarkin with the black-suited deathtroopers of his Initiative whose hues and polish so closely resembled the Sith Lord, and Vader with the stark white armour of his 501st Legion Stormtroopers.

Vader and Tarkin's escorts gave their respective wards a buffer of an empty seat on either side, but Tarkin was still found the confines of the hold crowded. Perhaps it was the imposing, angry presence of Darth Vader across from him, or the impersonal, identical textbook postures of the troopers… or perhaps it was just that Tarkin alone had his face exposed.

He distracted himself by keying his datapad again and reading the most recent update from the _Executrix_. The second full sweep had been completed, and Motti had not been found. The first search had only uncovered a trail establishing the path from the Star Destroyer's medbay to its hangar; dead stormtroopers hidden behind pipes in a utilidor, Motti's pressure cuffs thrown into a recycler receptacle, and his repulsorlift gurney stashed in an off-shift laundry room.

It was as thorough a plan as Tarkin would expect from Sturgist on short notice; no frills, with a heavy reliance on his own clout to carry it out. It was most unfortunate they had sounded a general brace alert well before executing their tractor beam manoeuvre. That would have cleared the halls as wayward crewmembers rushed to secure stations; no small assistance to the escape attempt.

Tarkin's eyes flicked to the hold's forward repeater display. Affixed over the door to the cockpit, it showed a panoramic view from the cameras under the nose of the shuttle's cockpit. Currently, those cameras gave a fine view of the curve of Coruscant – Imperial Centre, as it had been renamed after the Clone Wars – beneath them. Interspaced over the planet were numerous defensive groups of Star Destroyers, and the endless lines of traffic that banded the edge of the atmosphere. The thousands of ships were still, save for those that gave up on waiting to be released from their holding orbits and slipped out of line to depart.

Their shuttle, too, was still in a holding pattern, awaiting clearance to approach the Imperial Palace. With what he'd heard of the civil unrest on Coruscant's surface, Tarkin was hardly surprised that they had to cut through some red tape before they could start their approach, but they had been waiting for nearly half a standard hour now without moving, and he was rapidly losing patience.

"The fighter pilot," Vader spoke suddenly, but then seemed to reconsider, and was silent for a while longer.

Tarkin turned his head toward the Sith and waited for him to continue. When Vader didn't, he tried to prompt further discussion.

"You said the Force was with him," Tarkin supplied, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

He was quite familiar with the Sith's dark powers, as he had been with the many Jedi before him, but there were times that Vader would call attention to the Force in ways that weren't so indisputable as his ability to crush a man's larynx from across the room – such as his assertions that the Rebel pilot that had given them such trouble was guided and protected by the Force.

Perhaps Tarkin did him a disservice when he subjected those statements to such a critical ear, but during the Clone Wars he had always found a healthy scepticism to be not just helpful, but a necessary foil to the impenetrable mysticism that dominated the public perception and culture of the Jedi. When such irrational, intuition-driven thinking was as pervasive as it had been in the ranks of the Jedi, Tarkin suspected that the exact limits of their powers might have become indistinct in their own minds.

Certainly, if the Force was as all-encompassing as the Jedi believed, they would not have been so thoroughly exterminated as they had been. Vader had not shown any such inclination for aggrandizing his more arcane capabilities, but such spiels as that he had given to the Joint Chiefs on the Death Star caused Tarkin's cautious mindset to persist. Better that he remain a sceptic and be repeatedly proven wrong, than he trust wholly in the Sith's Force abilities and find them lacking at a critical moment.

"Yes." Vader nodded. "He is strong in the force. During this past battle he was even more attuned to the it than when I faced him before."

"Should we be worried about that?" Tarkin asked. "Kenobi is dead. Without a teacher, can he pose a threat to you?"

"He should not be underestimated. He has already evaded me twice, and he may do so again… to our ever-greater detriment."

"In a fighter, yes, but with a lightsaber?"

Vader was quiet for a moment, and then said "When we next find the Rebellion, I will destroy him."

"Careful that you don't forget yourself, Lord Vader," Tarkin cautioned. "Becoming too focussed on retribution can cause you to overextend. It was the folly of many commanders in the Clone Wars."

"Do not presume to lecture me on the dangers of hubris, Governor," Vader growled. Tarkin perked an eyebrow, but said nothing. Clearly, he'd touched a nerve. Was it regret for his headstrong leadership during the Clone Wars, or did the Sith Lord feel that he was also somewhat culpable for the Death Star's defeat?

Vader continued to smoulder, his posture radiating fury and frustration, so Tarkin elected to leave the Sith Lord to his ruminations and check his datapad. Finding no updates, he lowered the device again and allowed his eyes to stray back toward the repeater display. Tarkin was dismayed to find that their shuttle was _still_ maintaining its holding position.

With Vader so closed off, the shuttle hold had just become that much more oppressive, and after Tarkin's time on the _Executrix_ 's bridge – and the comparatively spacious Sentinel lander before that – the Lambda-class's tight hold felt claustrophobic. Tarkin had the sudden thought that he was tired of being surrounded by impassive helmets, while he bared his face for all to see.

He stood up, shutting off the datapad and brushing a crease out of his tunic. Without a word to Vader, he walked to the front of the hold and entered the cockpit.

Two junior officers sat at the pilots' controls. A third minded the astrogation seat, and Wullf Yularen occupied the starboard auxiliary seat, one leg folded over the other while he worked on his datapad. The Colonel glanced at Tarkin, but didn't otherwise acknowledge him.

That, subtle as it was, was a political move. As deputy director of the Naval arm of Military Intelligence, Yularen would be part of any judgement passed by the Ruling Council over the defeat of the Death Star, and his conduct in the matter would likely define the rest of his career.

Yularen's extensive working relationship with Tarkin would doubtless be called into question whether his evaluation of Tarkin was positive or negative, and any hint of collusion or favouritism – or, for that matter, malicious smearing – would prove disastrous for the Colonel. To keep himself above suspicion, it was safest if Yularen ignore Tarkin entirely until the matter was settled one way or the other.

Quite likely, Yularen was at that very moment working on his own report of the two engagements at Yavin – assuming he hadn't delivered one already. Tarkin wondered if it erred in his favour, or condemned him. He'd convinced himself that he wasn't to blame, but had he convinced the others?

Tarkin looked out the viewport, noting that the Home Defence Fleet looked to have been bolstered in the time since the defeat at Yavin. Judging by the four _Imperial_ -class Star Destroyers stationed in low orbit just in view of their cockpit – and assuming that the rest were spaced around the entirety of the Imperial Centre with the same regularity – there must have been at least thirty of the arrowhead capital ships encircling the capital, more than twice the normal complement, not counting the standard two escorts for each of the lynchpin craft.

"Why haven't we put down yet?" Tarkin demanded of the flight officers. "We are not traveling at our own leisure, pilots."

"We're still waiting for clearance, Governor," the co-pilot replied. "Demonstrations on the ground are spiralling and traffic control is keeping all incoming ships in holding patterns while the defensive fleet round up the protest ships that trespassed restricted blocks."

The surface of Coruscant – and indeed, the skyscrapers above it and the thousands of levels below – was in an uproar. In residential sectors with a majority Alderaanian population, vigils over their home world's destruction had erupted into riots when news circulated that the billions of deaths had been by the hand of the Empire. As the rumours had spread, so too had the chaos, spilling over into neighbouring sectors despite local enforcement's best attempts to contain the riots.

Now that the first rumours of the Death Star's defeat were slipping through the cracks in the information quarantine, the riots were spreading through the city-planet like wildfire. Sentients with no ties to Alderaan in a dozen family generations were being swept up and engorging the chaos, enthralled by the stunningly contagious effects of mob psychosis. When the individual thought themselves absolved of responsibility for their actions, they would take any excuse for some violent catharsis, even if the day before they wouldn't have known whether to spell "Alderaan" with two "a"s or three.

Tarkin was ultimately responsible for this chaos as well, although it was insignificant next to the loss of the Death Star – or the power of the Force, if one listened to Vader. Likely, any examination of his actions and their repercussions wouldn't even stray near to the riots when more logistically, statistically, or tactically significant consequences could be called on. Likewise, Tarkin couldn't let any restrictions necessitated by the ongoing mass hysteria delay him in presenting himself for judgement.

"Put through to bright-side traffic control with my priority command code," Tarkin said, slipping a code cylinder from the front of his uniform and handing it to the co-pilot. "There are to be no further delays, do you understand?"

Considering how close it was to dusk in the Federal District – if Tarkin's datapad had synchronized to the correct local timezone – there had best be no more delays, or they would be waiting even longer as their radial zone was transferred to dark-side control.

"Y-yes sir," the officer accepted the cylinder, evidently surprised that Tarkin was using his maximum clearance credentials to do something as – to him, at least – inconsequential as bypass a traffic hold. In Tarkin's opinion, the man's lack of comprehension as to why they had returned to the Imperial Center so urgently highlighted exactly why he was a junior officer relegated to such lowly work as flying a standby shuttle.

The man transmitted the codes, and only a few seconds later the crisp tones of a high priority traffic controller came over the com console speakers.

" _Shuttle_ Pyramidion _, you are cleared for direct approach to your requested landing pad. Your escort will meet you en route._ "

Tarkin allowed himself a smirk – a guilty pleasure, given the circumstances – and returned to the hold as the shuttle moved forward. He strapped himself back into his seat in preparation of their transition into the planet's atmosphere, then glanced at Vader.

"We should be setting down shortly," he said. The Sith Lord didn't respond, and Tarkin again turned his focus on his datapad.

His most recent holonet ping had retrieved one new message, courtesy of Siward Cass. It was flagged as a preliminary advisement, and titled ' _Possible sources on unidentified Rebel capital ship and suggested courses of action_ '.

Now was not the time to start reading such a document – and there was every chance that he would never read the document; that it would sit and wait for his soon-to-be successor, whoever that may be. Tarkin decided to skim through the prefix attached by Cass, and leave the rest for later… hopefully.

' _The following is a report compiled by Colonel Yularen, detailing the possible black or grey market origins of the Mon Calamari-design cruiser that was engaged over Yavin IV. It provides an extensive list of possible vectors by which the cruiser may have passed into Rebel hands, identifies a shortlist of possible shipyards outside Imperial control that may be capable of servicing the ship, and outlines several courses of action that can be taken to identify and begin the process of tracking the ship._ '

It went on in that fashion for another paragraph, but what caught Tarkin's attention was that _Yularen_ had sent Cass this report. That was quite interesting indeed. With Tarkin's future very much in question, it would have been an advantageous move for Yularen to prepare the report and withhold it to make a good impression on any potential new head of the Joint Chiefs. Sending it in now – and likely knowing that Cass would be prompt in forwarding it to Tarkin… was it a display of solidarity? If so, it was one made subtle enough to escape the notice of any communications surveillance, which might be scrutinizing their correspondence for signs of a conflict of interest.

Perhaps Tarkin had spent too long dwelling on his own possible reprimand, and had failed to consider Yularen and the others' positions. If the Emperor decided Tarkin was to be removed from his position, the method by which he would do so was not something Tarkin wanted to dwell on. Senior officers had died by Vader's hand for lesser failings.

If he was named guilty of failing the Empire and dismissed – and if that dismissal was a bloody one – the Emperor might decide to 'clean house', as one might phrase it, removing and replacing the members of the Joint Chiefs in the same manner as however Tarkin was retired from his own position.

With that in mind, maybe the only viable path forward for the collective members of the Joint Chiefs was to give him their support and hope that the status quo was maintained… and such a display of personal politics would in turn become a self-fulfilling prophecy in the event that Tarkin was dismissed, ensuring their own dismissals. Most interesting, and most concerning.

The _Pyramidion_ rocked up and down as it was buffeted by a high-altitude wind current, hull thrumming as it sliced through the air. The low rumbling had been gradually growing in the back of Tarkin's perception as they transitioned through the planet's upper atmosphere, reaching a familiar peak pitch as the shuttle reached the elevations where the air was at its most dense. Traveling at maximum speed, and having slipped down to the planet's surface at an optimal angle, they would be a few minutes out from the Imperial Palace at most. As they drew ever nearer to their destination, so too did Tarkin to his reckoning.

Tarkin switched off his datapad and stowed it beneath his seat. The report could wait for him or his successor. He looked at Vader's hunched form, electing to break the frosty silence between them with a familiar "Any last-minute advice, Lord Vader?"

The Sith Lord regarded him for a moment, and then only said "Do not lie to the Emperor."

"I had no intention of doing so," Tarkin replied, as if he could say anything else.

"If you do, it will be your end." Vader insisted. He spoke so confidently, it caught Tarkin's attention.

"You must, I assume, be referring to the force," he said. "Is there something I should know?"

"No." The shortness of Vader's answer did nothing to ease Tarkin's worries. Now he had to worry himself with what mystic interrogation tactic the Sith Lord expected him to undergo.

Then Tarkin could feel a pull toward the front of the shuttle as it bled off speed. The thrum of the hull quickly fell away and allowed the muffle screeching of their TIE fighter escort to penetrate the durasteel. After a minute of deceleration, the shuttle switched over to its landing repulsorlifts, and the sound of the escort faded as the fighters screamed ahead, passing through the view of the repeater feed and then banking away to the left.

Tarkin watched through the screen as the _Pyramidion_ sank lower and lower, and the flat skyscape of the Federal District was first breached by the lofty towers of the Imperial Palace, and then consumed by the brutalist façade of the Palace proper. A moment later, that too was obstructed as the shuttle slipped beneath the walls of one of the landing courtyards.

Vader's six stormtroopers were up and out of their flight seats before the shuttle had settled, standing ready to disembark.

The ramp lowered, its opening obscured by outgassing jets as the shuttle's internal pressure was equalized with that of the landing courtyard. Without waiting for it to clear, the troopers descended through the fog.

Tarkin's deathtroopers were next to stand, their actions slower, more deliberate and poised as they positioned themselves to follow their two wards out of the shuttle.

Tarkin rose from his seat, as did Vader. The Sith Lord nodded toward Tarkin offering a curt "After you, Governor."

They proceeded down the ramp, Tarkin noticing as they did so that Colonel Yularen had not yet emerged from the cockpit. Most likely, he wouldn't until they had departed the courtyard.

The Stormtroopers were lined up beneath the shuttle cockpit, three to a side, blasters held at formal rest. Tarkin and Vader strode past them, the deathtroopers flowing around them to form a hexagonal escort pattern.

From under the awning opposite – apparently having only just arrived – emerged Grand Vizier Mas Amedda. His customary robes should have rendered him formless, but his Chagrian horns and blue skin made him instantly recognizable, as did the distinctive red-robed pair of royal guards flanking him.

"Lord Vader, Governor Tarkin. It would be my pleasure to escort you to the throne room." Amedda greeted them with his ever-smug tone. He put undue stress on Tarkin's title, and there was little doubt as to the meaning behind it. His interactions with the Grand Vizier had always been filled with duplicity and slights, even before he became a Grand Moff. In the time since his appointment, that relationship had festered into outright hostility. No doubt the Grand Vizier relished at the thought that – perhaps literally – Tarkin's head would soon roll.

Tarkin scowled and made to stop, as did Amedda, but Vader marched silently onward, not even acknowledging the Grand Vizier. With only a moment's hesitation, Tarkin joined him, quickening his pace to make up for the lost ground. Amedda waited a moment longer, a foul expression on his face. Then he followed the pair and their escort just behind and to the left. He made no attempt to keep abreast of them, likely to save face that would have been lost in the undignified jog it would have required.

Only now did Vader speak. "You may dispense with the pleasantries, Grand Vizier. My master awaits, and he will tolerate no further delays."

The Chagrian, likely incensed, made no reply. Vader was one of two – perhaps three, if Tarkin wasn't about to be interrogated on his culpability in the Empire's worst defeat – people in the entire Empire who could slight the Grand Vizier and face no repercussions.

On today, more than any other day, Tarkin did not have that same freedom. More than anything, he was granted clemency in ignoring Amedda by his obligation to keep up with Vader. Oh, but seeing the Chagrian's outrage did lift his spirits, just a little.

Another flight of TIE fighters came screaming overhead, and Tarkin glanced up as they passed. Above, he could see the small arrowhead shapes of not one, but three _Imperial_ -Class Star Destroyers and their respective escorts in low orbit. Their white hulls had been given a ruddy hue by the sunset illumination reflected from Coruscant's surface. The considerable length and width of the _Imperial_ -class ships made them easily visible from a planet's surface, but the smaller _Victories_ were far less obvious, only made noticeable by their proximity to their larger wards. On their own, they could be easily mistaken for the first stars coming out before dusk.

Tarkin had thought the inflated number of ships in the Home Defence Fleet had seemed an odd reaction to the disaster at Yavin; the Rebellion was still on the back foot, and the chance of there being any coordinated attack on the Imperial Centre was incredibly low. On the other hand, if the additional ships were a response to the demonstrations and riots that had broken out across the planet, they would still be woefully inadequate for putting down any widespread dissidence from the literal _trillion_ sentients that called the Imperial Centre their home.

The three defence groups positioned over the Federal District, however, presented a different possibility; the Emperor or the Imperial Ruling Council might be taking steps to protect against an internal threat. It seemed to Tarkin that the high number was so that the ships could watch over eachother just as they watched over the centre of Imperial power. Tarkin had to wonder what whispers could have reached ISB or Imperial Intelligence that would prompt them to such a reaction, and was troubled that he had heard none of it.

They crossed into the deep shadows beneath the landing courtyard's awning, and Tarkin found himself blinking repeatedly while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The set of double doors ahead of them slid open, revealing a dark void within. The antechamber beyond was as dark as the shadows of the awning.

They entered the antechamber, and Tarkin noticed a hint of red in his periphery – although Amedda and his guards hadn't gained any ground on them. As they entered the room, motion sensors detected their passage and activated the room's recessed lighting.

The Antechamber was tastefully appointed with warm wood panelling and accents, though it was completely lacking in furnishings; not even featuring a set of potted plants. When Tarkin had last visited the Imperial Palace, the landing courtyard had opened immediately into the end of a vaulted hallway. Now, it seemed the very end of that hallway had been sectioned off and had its roof lowered to create this entry chamber. Doubtless the space over the room had been populated with all manner of identification and scanning devices that scrutinized all who passed through.

Six red-robed royal guards occupied the room. Two pairs flanked either of the room's double doors, and another two stood against the walls halfway between them. Adding them to the fourth pair that still followed them with Amedda, and it made for a density of the elite guards that Tarkin had only ever known to occur in the presence of the Emperor himself.

With the crackling sound of charged metals contacting, the two guards in front of them crossed their force pikes over the door that gave access to the Palace. Their path barred, Vader came to a stop in the centre of the chamber, as did Tarkin and their escort.

"Many apologies, gentlemen," Amedda drawled as he entered the room. "These are trying times, and we must present a strong, unified face for the Empire."

"I will not tolerate delays," Vader rumbled, turning to stare at the Grand Vizier, and Tarkin noted that he seemed to reflexively curl the fingers of his right hand as he did so. He had mixed feelings about employing _that_ particular solution.

"Patience, Lord Vader!" the Chagrian implored, his tone no less cavalier. "I will escort you to the Emperor directly. I only require that we do so in the proper fashion."

"And what fashion might that be?" Tarkin asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"With dignity," Amedda replied simply, as if the answer was self-evident.

He stepped between Tarkin and Vader, positioning himself in front of them. His guards – both the two that had been accompanying him and the four that stood sentry at the antechamber's doors – merged with the deathtrooper escort to form an encircling ring of alternating black armour and red robes.

"Straight backs, gentlemen," Amedda advised them. "For the Empire."

Tarkin wondered if there was a sardonic edge to that. Then the Chagrian led the way into the palace proper, and it became clear that there wasn't.

The doors slid open, and the cacophony of movement and frantic conversation hit Tarkin like a wave. The Imperial Palace – even this relatively unimportant hallway that connected a previously unoccupied landing courtyard to the rest of the complex – was a hive of activity.

Tarkin had always known the Imperial Palace to be a melee of functionaries, civil servants, and military officials. Now, however, the corridor – just this one orbital hallway – was packed full with dignitaries, aides, palace staff, messenger droids, as well as officers and even some Moffs that Tarkin could recognize mostly by face, and otherwise by their uniforms and rank plaques. Most curiously, Tarkin noted there were a great many men and women wearing senatorial garb. With the Imperial Senate having been dissolved several days ago, any senators should have been – at the most – In the process of clearing out their offices in the Senate Building. How even one of them had gained entry to the Imperial Palace was beyond him.

The striking figures of the royal guards drew the attention of the mass immediately. Their mere presence signalled that all in the vicinity were witnessing the passage of a member of the Empire's uppermost echelons; either the Emperor or the Grand Vizier.

Slowly, almost grudgingly, the sea of heads parted in front of them, displaced by the menacing presence of the royal guards. The sound of discussion grew even louder, and Tarkin observed many among the anonymous mass scrutinizing the unfamiliar squad of deathtroopers, while others – mostly those who looked vaguely senior or connected enough to have heard rumours through connections – seemed far more interested in Tarkin and Vader's presence – the later more due to his innate ability to command attention wherever he went.

Tarkin wondered how much had managed to reach the ears of the networked elite on Imperial Centre. As more relief ships were routed into the Yavin system, those in the military branches of Imperial power would be the first to hear of any concrete details, and the information would radiate outwards from there; snippets of varying sensitivity told in confidence to political allies or friends, who would then – having less sense for the sensitive nature of the intelligence – pass the news on to friends and family with far less discretion.

They proceeded down the hallway at an excruciatingly slow pace, owed to the sluggishness with which the crowd parted ahead of them. The constant backdrop of conversation encircled them, and in that most discomforting manner, Tarkin could hear his own name being dropped by dozens, then hundreds of people. Of course, he also caught other snippets; allusions to Vader, Amedda, the Emperor, and even members of the Imperial Ruling Council and the Joint Chiefs; it was the ceaseless invocations of his own name that dominated his attention only because of the innate sense of self and thoroughly ingrained aptitude for recognizing their own name, even in a crowded room.

Surveillance droids moved up and down the vaulted upper half of the hallway's length, and Tarkin noticed several that bore prominent Imperial markings and overlarge holocam recorders had slowed overhead and begun circling their procession, holocam apertures zooming and focussing on their procession.

The holo construct from their feeds would be flowing directly into ISB's boundless databases, likely to be scrutinized and distributed to various holonet feeds in order to support whichever narrative suited the outcome of the evening's proceedings. Tarkin had never found it difficult to reframe a narrative to his own advantage, but he didn't have any innate gift for 'the spin', as those from the Ministry of Information called it. He could imagine the broader strokes of how the holo footage would be presented.

' _The stalwart Grand Moff Tarkin arrived at the Imperial Centre today, fresh from a successful engagement with a rebel cell. Here we see him alongside Darth Vader and Grand Vizier Amedda, escorted by a joint honour guard to a closed meeting with Emperor Palpatine._ '

It was, if nothing else, a fine fantasy of how things might turn out. If, however, he entered the Imperial throne room and disappeared forever into the annals of history, the description of the event would be quite different.

' _The former Grand Moff, Wilhuff Tarkin, was brought to the Imperial Palace under armed guard today. Beneath the watchful eyes of Darth Vader, Grand Vizier Amedda, and a double-complement of royal guards and Imperial stormtroopers, he was taken before Emperor Palpatine to receive judgement for his heinous misuse of the DS-1 battle station to target a core world of the Empire._ '

The recorder droids continued to circle, while another with a conventional photo lens strafed along their path of travel, the faint clicking of its shutter taking dozens of photos a second sounding like the distant reports of a repeating blaster.

Tarkin set his eyes forward, determined to ignore them. He found it difficult, and had no way to slip out from under their watchful eyes. It was all he could do to avoid looking at them again.

Two figures stepped forward from the crowd, their garb senatorial; flared pants, ruffled shirts and capes. One was a youthful human that Tarkin could recognize – even remember his name, 'Vothe Apolin' – but not recall the system which he represented. The other – with his bulbous and creased forehead, pallid cyan skin, and red eyes that lacked visible pupils – was clearly a Duros, that species which were cousins to the Neimodians that had led the Separatist movement.

Both of the former-senators faces were set in harsh lines – although for the Duros, that was hardly distinguishable from a more neutral countenance.

"Grand Vizier," the Duros began. "This is an _outrage_. We demand an audience with the-"

The words died in his throat as the two closest deathtroopers levelled their blasters at him, and the royal guard situated between them stepped out of position. The guard slipped his force pike into an aggressive hold, it's vibrotip engaging with an almost imperceptible hum.

Both senators recoiled, but the guard did not settle for mere intimidation. He followed through on his stance, ramming his force pike into the Duros's midriff. There was the buzz of contact, and the sea-hued alien went down, unable to even cry out through his sudden paralysis.

Apolin took another step back, raising a hand in surrender. The guard batted it away and struck him across the front. The former senator crumpled alongside his companion, twitching and seizing under the sensory load of the force-pike's stunning effect.

The royal guard returned his weapon to a formal rest and took two long strides that put him back in formation with their escort, which hadn't even slowed for the intrusion. They continued down the hallway, their pace allowed to quicken as the crowd drew back at their approach with a greater urgency.

Tarkin glanced over his shoulder and saw another pair of guards – perhaps those that had thought remained in the courtyard anteroom – grabbing the stunned pair and dragging them away. The shocked crowd only looked on.

Turning ahead again, Tarkin addressed Amedda quietly. "Judging by the wardrobe, most of those around us shouldn't even be allowed into the district anymore. How did they gain entrance to the Palace itself?"

"Desperation," Amedda replied, making no attempt to lower his voice. "Desperation and an ability to talk their way past obstacles – a talent quite common among politicians, much to my surprise."

Tarkin scowled at the Chagrian's indifference. "You don't know?"

"Oh, I imagine most of them bullied their way in. Not all the palace guards are as unflappable as our friends in red, here." Amedda waved a dismissive hand. "It's not difficult to take advantage of confusion and uncertainty, Governor. The Death Star was completed and the Senate was disbanded. Now the talk is that the Death Star has fallen, so naturally some might expect that the Senate will be reinstated. Would you like to be the door guard that ruined his career turning away the Senator from – say – Corellia, because you weren't in the know?"

"By the sounds of it, Grand Vizier, you're condoning incompetence and a lack of resolve."

"Not by any means, Tarkin. Merely commiserating. As I said, these are trying times, and we must all suffer through it as best we can." Amedda turned his head enough that he could survey Tarkin out of the corner of his eye. "Some of us far more than others."

If he was hoping for a reaction, Tarkin provided none, and so Amedda continued.

"We'll be checking the means by which all these… uncleared… individuals have gained access to the palace, and units are already being formed to sweep the building and apprehend any trespassers. Such things are more difficult to organize with entire Star Destroyers being reassigned with only an hour's notice. It's a classic example of the sluggish reactions large bureaucracies have to upheaval."

For all his talk of trying times and upheaval, Amedda appeared to be very much enjoying himself. Tarkin found the Chagrian frustrating at the best of times. Now that he was taking great pleasure in taunting Tarkin and flaunting his own uncompromised position, Amedda was unbearable.

They went on, spending tens of minutes on end pushing through the endless crowd at speeds that seemed comparable to a glacier. Moving through the palace didn't get any easier until they reached the innermost halls, where the crowds they pushed through turned into a seething outward tide that brought them to a standstill while the royal guards and deathtroopers maintained the escort perimeter through constant shoving and bludgeoning of anyone that attempted to push through.

Once that flood of people had been surpassed they were granted a quickened pace through mostly empty halls, populated only by those of more military garb. Tarkin could imagine what might have caused the civilians aids and trespassing senators to take flight, and it didn't take long to see the accuracy of his prediction.

They passed through yet another of the palace's thousands of arches, and the left side of the hallway became a colonnaded lip that overlooked a massive gallery. Tarkin wasn't intimately familiar with the Imperial Palace, but he had made enough journeys to visit the Emperor over the years that he would have to be a fool not to notice that they had deviated from the most direct course to the throne room. Also, though he was less familiar with the several paths that would take them to some of the Emperor's few favoured haunts that weren't within the central spire, he was certain that a trip along this overlook wasn't part of any of them. Had Amedda detoured this way just so they could observe the events unfolding below while they passed through?

A few minutes prior, it looked as if the open space would have been a seething mass of people. Now it was ringed by over one hundred Imperial Stormtroopers, who were forcibly lining up their thousand-odd captives, sifting out those who didn't have clearance to access the palace, and detaining them in a separate group that mostly was comprised of senators and their aides.

"Those that fled won't find sanctuary anywhere else," Amedda informed them. "The whole palace will be sealed off now. All going well, the structure will be cleared of trespassers by the end of a few hours."

"Any one of these interlopers could be a rebel sympathizer," Vader said. "Your men should detain with extreme prejudice."

"I'll be sure to pass your suggestion along, Lord Vader," Amedda replied, only the barest hint of condescension in his voice. "I'm sure the troopers will be glad for your expert instruction."

Vader's response was to stare back at the Chagrian with what Tarkin could only imagine was a potent glower. Amedda's callous treatment of someone so dangerous as Darth Vader only served to reinforce Tarkin's suspicion that the Sith Lord was also being brought to task.

"And we should return to our proper course," Vader said, and so too was Tarkin's other suspicion confirmed. "Unless you would like the Emperor to know it was you who delayed us with this pointless spectacle."

Amedda acquiesced, giving no indication whether the Sith's threat had given him any pause for thought, and before long, following a series of corners and stretches of hallways with varying densities of population, they found themselves climbing a familiar length of finely carpeted stairs.

They emerged into a spacious atrium that had so frequently been the penultimate destination of Tarkin's visits to the Imperial Palace. This atrium, appointed with the finest of Imperial décor, contained the bank of turbolifts that – though he didn't know them to have any special designation – Tarkin had come to think of as the 'master lifts'. They directly connected to the Emperor's residence at the zenith of the palace's centre spire, the Imperial throne room, the chambers of the Imperial Ruling Council, and to several other facilities of a more clandestine nature.

Amedda accompanied them to the centremost turbolift, then fanned their escort out with a wave of his hand before gesturing to the door. "Gentlemen, the Emperor awaits you above. All glory to the Empire." He inclined his head, and then added with a sarcastic edge "I wish you both the best of fortunes."

Vader ignored him, stepping into the waiting car as soon as the door slid open. Tarkin, feeling significantly more hamstrung by the realities of his situation, returned Amedda's nod. "With luck, I expect that we'll speak again on the morrow."

"As you say," Amedda replied corner of his mouth quirking with satisfaction. Tarkin resisted the impulse to roll his eyes and joined Vader in the lift.

No sooner had the door closed and the turbolift begun its rapid ascent, than Tarkin found himself muttering a single word to the Sith. "Insufferable."

After a long pause, Vader responded. "Indeed."

Tarkin nodded once, then squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and readjusted his posture; slung arm to the fore, free arm to his back.

Vader observed his fussing in silence, taking no such interest in his presentation. Tarkin wondered if Vader's ever-perfect posture was actually a result of his rigid-bodied suit. Not for the first time, he mused that wearing the cumbersome gear must be an exercise in claustrophobia and perpetual – almost existential – agony.

The turbolift slowed, then came to a stop. The door opened, and Tarkin looked out into blackness; the only illumination a short square of light thrown through the doorway by the lift's overhead light.

Tarkin and Vader stepped out of the elevator car, the door sliding closed behind them, and they were plunged into darkness. The throne room was an enclave of shadows, the only hints of illumination coming from dim strip lights that demarked the points where the walls met the floor and ceiling. Tarkin expected that once his eyes adjusted he would be able to make the room out better, but until then the chamber seemed permeated by a deep, almost sightless darkness.

Vader didn't falter in his approach, so neither did Tarkin, trusting that the infrared vision offered by his companion's mask would guide the way. He kept abreast of the Sith Lord as they moved deeper into the chamber, finding his way by keeping reference to the darker patch of black that was the SIth's cloaked form, barely distinct from the room around them.

Tarkin almost stumbled as they reached the stairs that led up to the mezzanine, but managed to keep his footing and ascend to the top – although he also struggled to keep his balance upon reaching the top and attempting to continue to a next step that didn't exist. He grimaced at the indignity, but otherwise simply kept moving.

His pupils were still dilating, but Tarkin would need to be blind to miss Vader dropping onto one knee. That was a gesture the Sith Lord reserved only for his master. Tarkin looked ahead and could make out a shapeless silhouette, becoming more and more distinguishable from the darkness behind it with every passing second.

"My Lord Emperor," Tarkin offered his greeting, bowing low and holding there for several seconds before straightening. When he did, his eyes had adjusted enough that he could distinguish the details of the throne room. They stood opposite the large circular window that overlooked the skyline of the Federal District, although it was currently shuttered. In front of it, draped in the billowing folds of his robe and recessed into the deep cavity of his throne, was the ghastly form of Emperor Palpatine. His deeply lined face regarded Tarkin and Vader with that impassive disdain he employed so effectively against underlings that had failed him.

Vader stayed on one knee, head downturned, while the Emperor gave Tarkin his undivided attention. After several long seconds, he lifted a hand toward Vader and commanded him.

"Rise."

Vader returned to his feet. With the darkness blurring the edges of his suit, he seemed an even more massive and threatening figure than his already imposing height had made him. Yet, his address of the Emperor was as reverent as ever.

"What is thy bidding, my master?"

Palpatine didn't respond directly, still scrutinizing Tarkin – who, for his part, kept his face tacitly deferent. When the Emperor finally spoke, he left Vader's enquiry unacknowledged.

"A most interesting day, wouldn't you say?" Palpatine's voice was low, and sounded almost conversational, but disdain was written across his face. "While I awaited your arrival, I occupied myself by going through the communiques from those prominent enough in the hierarchy to be worthy of my attention. If you could see even half of them, I believe it would grant you some bare understanding of the true gravity of your situation.

Tarkin bunched his free hand behind his back. He thought he was quite aware of his precarious position.

"I cannot count how many admirals have advocated that you both should be summarily executed for your failings," the Emperor continued. "Some made quite grounded accusations that the pair of you are Rebel sympathizers. I have seen it repeatedly argued that one could not fail so utterly in the deployment of a power so great unless it was an intentional act of self-sabotage. Tell me, Governor, what do you think of that?"

"I think, my Lord Emperor," Tarkin began, uneasy, "…that the vast majority of those recommendations both lack knowledge of the station's sabotaged design, and have been provided by those who feel they would have something to gain by mine and Lord Vader's dismissal."

"Dismissal," Palpatine smirked, as if such innocent nomenclature genuinely amused him. "But it is not those political climbers that you must convince, Governor Tarkin; it is I, and I think you will find that I am not so uninformed as they."

"Yes, my Lord." Tarkin bowed his head. "Then I take it that you will not need our account of the events in the Yavin system, and that we will not be presenting this before the ruling council?"

"We will convene with the ruling council when I see fit." The Emperor seemed irked that Tarkin would even suggest taking the issue before anyone but him. "This is a matter far too significant to be resolved by a _committee_. I would have you explain yourself to _me_ , Tarkin."

"Of course, my Lord," Tarkin agreed, nodding, knowing that to add anything else would only draw more ire.

"As to your other question, I am well apprised of both of your engagements at Yavin, and your continued failure to quash the Rebellion." Palpatine's eyes bored into his. "You will tell me why those events came to pass, and why you acted as you did."

Tarkin nodded, stealing a deep breath through his nose before beginning. "I was… misled."

"Misled." Palpatine let out a short bark of laughter. "Is that what we now consider a proper explanation? Very well, Tarkin. At whose feet do you lay the blame?"

"Admiral Motti," Tarkin said. "He was blinded by the power of the Death Star. It made him arrogant, and corrupted him as a member of my counsel."

"Arrogance, Tarkin?" Palpatine still seemed darkly amused. "If anyone is so well-versed in arrogance that they should be able to recognize it when it first takes root, I would think it to be you. If Motti was such an inferior advisor, I must question how he made his way onto the Joint Chiefs in the first place."

The Emperor paused, and a smile came across his face, as if he was savouring the moment before he gave voice to his next thought.

"Indeed, I must note that Admiral Motti is from Seswenna. Out of all the wide galaxy, your most incompetent advisor hailed from your own sector of governance. Most interesting."

"My Lord Emperor," Tarkin bristled. "Are you accusing me of nepotism? Cronyism?"

The Emperor's response was indirect. "Up until now I have not questioned your appointments that – if made by any lesser individual – would be the cause of great concern. That is because until now, you have never given me reason to be concerned by your decisions."

Tarkin set his mouth in a line. "That Admiral Motti was a part of my staff was a bias not of my preference, but of exposure. While I served as Moff and Motti as an admiral of the Seswenna sector, our duties dictated that we interacted regularly. Amongst his peers, he was exemplary, and hence I made the decision to appoint him to the joint chiefs."

Palpatine didn't respond, and his deeply lined face remained impassive as he scrutinized Tarkin. Perhaps it was only the way the feeble light diffused across his many wrinkles, keeping his sunken eyes in shadow, but it looked as if he was not only unconvinced, but ireful.

Tarkin stiffened, and continued. "I had no reason to think that Motti was anything less than exemplary before now. In all his years on my staff, I have never once found his advice – both in tactics and in policy – to be anything less than satisfactory, and in most instances excellent."

At that, the Emperor gave a cruel smile. "That speaks more to flaws in your judgement than his."

Tarkin frowned, unwilling to be so combative as to rebuke the jab. When the Emperor was quiet, Tarkin resumed his explanation.

"I would go so far as to say that his long record of immaculate service, and the innate trust that engendered, was a major factor in why I did not see his delusions for what they were. I was made more susceptible to the poor suggestions he gave in the final days before the Death Star's defeat. Only a trusted member of my inner circle could – and did – convince me to disperse the station's defensive fleet as a show of strength, or reassure me that the Rebels' possession of the plans did not constitute a significant threat."

Again, the Emperor did not respond. Tarkin did not enjoy explaining at length why he was not the one responsible for the Death Star's defeat, but even worse was going on and on while Palpatine just watched him, having to change from reason to reason without input or feedback. It carried all the hallmarks of grovelling. With the Emperor's responses so infrequent and curt, Tarkin had no way of knowing, even, if Palpatine believed him.

Then, entirely unbidden, a thought came to Tarkin… although it was strange… it felt cold in the back of his mind, and… and distant… hazy, like it was a beam of light rendered wane after barely piercing a thick fog.

' _But do I believe myself?_ ' The question came, sounding within his mind like he had asked it of himself from down a long hallway. At the moment, it was irrelevant.

He brushed it aside, but it returned almost as quickly as it had left, even more belligerent. It still imparted that icy presence on his awareness, and now carried an unidentifiable sense of urgency and importance. ' _Not irrelevant; vital. If I'm lying to myself, how can I convince the Emperor?_ '

Well of course he wasn't lying to himself. The notion was preposterous. Was he faultless in his handling of the Death Star in its final hours? Though he was loathe to admit it, no, he wasn't. But at the time, he had been acting on the best advisement of his staff – the enthusiastic Motti, most of all. His perception of the battle station had been coloured… by Motti's own delusions, and he had been so accustomed to receiving sensible counsel from the Admiral that he had not recognized his delusions of grandeur for what they were until Bast's warning had brought him to his senses. That was the truth as Tarkin saw it, and if he was leaning more heavily on Motti's poor counsel in his explanation to Palpatine, it was only the natural response to avoid painting oneself in a negative light.

"Your staff," The Emperor said, and Tarkin felt as if he had just collapsed in on himself. How long had he been standing there, lost in his own thoughts? How had that even happened, especially at such a crucial moment? Had he missed some context spoken just before?

"I… I'm sorry?" was all he could think to say.

"Your staff, Tarkin," Palpatine repeated, sunken eyes ranging over his face. Now that Tarkin had recovered from his daze enough to notice, he found that the Emperor's voice sounded hollow – tired, as if he had just completed some massive exertion. Still, Palpatine did not elaborate.

Tarkin took a moment to consider the words – or rather, to collect himself, and _then_ consider the words. When he had taken just long enough that the silence was becoming oppressive, he had to admit defeat.

"I'm sorry, my lord Emperor… I don't believe I understand."

Palpatine regarded him for a few seconds chilling seconds before responding. "You call them 'your staff', Tarkin. They are the Joint Chiefs of the Empire. You display your arrogance for all to see… and yet you don't even realize it."

Tarkin made to reply, but stopped himself. What defence did he have against that?

Again, silence filled the throne room, and Tarkin let it linger for seconds that threatened to stretch to minutes. Indeed, they likely could have stood there for minutes and more while the Emperor and Vader awaited his response… or rather, his excuse.

"Hmm…" Tarkin turned away and rubbed at his chin, then looked back. "You're right, Sheev."

"Am I?" Palpatine's voice was almost sardonic, amused by the change of tact. He didn't acknowledge Tarkin's invocation of his first name – something that he hadn't done since the galaxy had been ruled by a Republic.

"Yes…" Tarkin nodded slowly. "I became too accustomed to acting as the head of the joint chiefs; to appointing and dismissing its members, and to having them follow my orders. It was arrogance of most insidious sort… and it begot complacency."

"Complacency," Palpatine intoned.

"Yes, my lord Emperor."

An amused smile reached the corners of Palpatine's mouth, and even brought a light to his eyes. "An artful misdirection. You always did have an aptitude for politics."

"Is that not what you said when we first met?" Tarkin asked. "I thought that was one of the reasons you sought me out."

The Emperor's smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, and Tarkin knew he had overstepped.

Palpatine turned to face into the deep shadows that lined the walls of the throne room. "General, come."

Tarkin turned, surprised, as High General Cassio Tagge emerged from the inkiest part of the darkness, posture parade ground straight. He gave the emperor a curt bow, and then affixed his eyes on a point between the throne, and the pair that stood before it.

"Tagge…" Tarkin murmured under his breath. Surely, his future couldn't hinge on Tagge's approval. His earlier theory – that the members of the Joint Chiefs might be obliged to support him irrespective of any other factors – was scattered to the wind. The context that any one might have something to gain by denouncing him reframed things in a light that Tarkin did _not_ find preferable.

Tarkin found himself dredging his memory for every jab, every passive aggressive slight, every curt word that he'd ever sent Tagge's way. In total, not as much as he'd directed at the likes of Bast. But, of course, if the High General at all resented Tarkin's treatment of Bast…

And of course, there was the political factor; how much did Tagge stand to gain from Tarkin's fall? Even more than Tarkin had stood to gain from Motti's, that was certain. If Tarkin was brought to task for the Death Star's defeat, it wouldn't be difficult for Tagge to leverage his way into being appointed as the head of the Joint Chiefs, and an elevation to Grand General or Moff.

Palpatine gestured to Tagge. "General, your thoughts?"

Tagge cleared his throat, and Tarkin prepared for the worst. Somehow, what followed was anything but.

"Motti was opinionated and vocal. He thought the Death Star was infallible, and I disagreed. We argued frequently. Governor Tarkin…" Tagge glanced at Tarkin, who grit his teeth. "…was already invested in the battle station project, and hence favoured Motti's arguments."

Tarkin kept his face impassive. Tagge sounded reasonable thusfar, but so often a façade of reason was a cover for one's true motives.

"But Motti was too ambitious, and in the end, his reach exceeded his grasp. For that, I hold him responsible." Tagge paused, seeming hesitant to voice the next part of his train of thought. "…It's an old adage that for the malevolent to succeed, the altruist must simply do nothing. And for that… I must hold myself responsible. By my own initiative, I undertook the role of the voice of reason, but I let Motti's tirades wear my patience, and too often I let him go on unchecked. With insufficient pushback against his opinions, Motti's influence became insidious. His words were poison."

Tagge paused again, a brief moment in which Tarkin could reflect on his speech thus far with incredulity. This was impossible. It defied all logic!

Then Tagge closed the matter solemnly. "Governor Tarkin's conduct was not perfect – far from it – and he made decisions that I disagreed with in the strongest terms, but I do agree with his assessment; the Grand Moff's mistakes were informed at every turn by the counsel of a man who had taken the subtle step from brilliantly aggressive, to megalomaniacal. Admiral Motti was, if I may wax poetic, a constant devil on Governor Tarkin's shoulder, and I failed in my self-appointed duty as the angel to oppose him."

There was silence in the throne room for a several seconds after he concluded, during which Tarkin failed to keep the surprise from his face. Not only had Tagge not capitalized on a prime opportunity to catapult himself to the highest bounds of his career, but he had voluntarily named himself as partly to blame for Motti's unchecked influence among the Joint Chiefs.

It was the exact opposite of what Tarkin had expected, and he couldn't yet grasp the intent behind it. Tagge was shrewd, pragmatic, and ambitious. It wasn't an act of loyalty or altruism that drove this declaration. There had to be a purpose here that Tarkin wasn't seeing… but what was Tagge's agenda, and was this really the time – of all _possible_ times – to risk playing with the figurative lightsabre of the meeting point of personal politics and power?

"A thorough assessment, General," Palpatine observed, a common tactic he employed that let him acknowledge Tagge's contribution while sidestepping the social decorum that dictated he thank the General for his input, thereby maintaining his aloofness. "You may go."

"Yes, my lord Emperor." Tagge bowed deeply. When he straightened again, his eyes flickered briefly to Tarkin's before he turned and strode down the length of the throne room, exiting through the main entrance.

As Tagge made his exit, Palpatine idly keyed a button on the armrest of his throne. Silently, the shutters occluding the massive window behind the throne irised open, flooding the throne room with the brilliant red light of the Coruscant sunset. What was previously a jumble of vague shapes and poorly contrasted colours now was thrown into sharp relief, and Tarkin – blinking rapidly as his eyes readjusted yet again to the new illumination – could make out the familiar, sparse details of the throne room; the rounded pillars set into the walls, the Royal Guards stationed between them, the overhead grated walkways that juxtaposed the fine décor below.

The three of them waited without speaking, the sound of Tagge's footsteps awkwardly filling the gap in the interrogation until the subtle hiss of the closing turbolift door cut them off. The following silence lingered for a few seconds more even after that, and the Emperor seemed to still be considering the sum of Tarkin's explanation and Tagge's interpretation. Curiously, he seemed uninterested in Vader's assessment.

"Before I pass my judgement, is there anything else you have to say, Tarkin?" Palpatine said. His speaking up so suddenly startled Tarkin, and made him realize both how long they had gone without talking, and that he had somehow let his thoughts consume his awareness again – though this time not in the same dazed fashion. "Do you have any final excuses?"

"I think the brunt of my argument has been said, my Lord Emperor," Tarkin replied, questioning if Palpatine's deliberate use of the word 'excuse' truly reflected his feelings on the matter, or if it was just another of the many small tactics that he employed to keep his underlings from growing too… well, complacent, as it happened.

"I would only add that I have been a loyal, dependable servant of the Empire since its inception, and that had I not acted as I did, the battle station project would not even be the husk we have now; it would be nothing but a cloud of hot dust. This failure has had a terrible cost, but it is one of few, and even smaller than others that have been made both by myself and by lesser officers; it is only unfortunate that of all the times I have failed in my duties, this was at a moment with consequences as great as the Death Star's destruction. That does not mean I cannot still perform my role just as capably as I have before." Tarkin paused, and then added "And so I submit myself for your judgement, my Lord Emperor."

Palpatine was silent for ten long seconds, and now Tarkin's thoughts did not run away with his mind. All of his focus was directed, with crystal clarity, at the Emperor's haggard face, waiting for any hint of his decision.

"Very well, Tarkin," Palpatine spoke without preamble, his voice no less scornful than it had been. "Your argument is not without merit. You will have your chance at redemption."

Tarkin allowed himself a slightly deeper breath than he would usually take; as close as he dared venture toward a sigh of relief. He bowed his head in deference to the Emperor's decision but was prevented from offering thanks as Palpatine continued to speak.

"We have a great many challenges ahead; challenges that call for a change of tactics." Palpatine said, turning to his apprentice. "Until now, Vader, your role in our Empire has been as ambiguous as it is clandestine. Now that it is time for the whole galaxy to close over the Rebellion as a single, unified, iron fist… we will require that you act as a more… official… extension of my will. Henceforth, you shall take the title of Supreme Commander of the combined Imperial forces."

Vader bowed his head as Tarkin just had. "Yes, my master."

Tarkin, for his part, was inwardly aghast. That he had made a grievous error was undeniable, but to be punished so spitefully that an anti-diplomat such as Vader would be placed over him – who, while a prodigious warrior and proficient field commander, was not of the same tactical calibre as Tarkin… it was against all reasonable-

His thought was interrupted when the Emperor turned back to him. "And likewise, we will be expanding your role. The ranks of the Grand Moffs have grown so crowded as to have their individual esteem diluted, and to merely be a first among equals will no longer be sufficient authority to fulfil your duties to me. We shall elevate you to a new position of Supreme Moff; a suitable accompaniment to Vader's new duties."

Tarkin blinked once, entirely taken aback. "My Lord?"

"Do not think I am unaware of conflicting messages this sends." Palpatine's voice became even harsher. "Had you not failed in your deployment of the Death Star, this position would have been yours without condition. Now, with such a great misstep at your back, I consider it an act of necessity to preserve the new order. This is your chance to put right what you have so dearly wronged."

"And…" Tarkin, to his eternal shame, was still flustered by this reversal. "…and my role as governor of the outer rim?"

The Emperor waved a hand. "Irrelevant. Your new duties far exceed the boundaries of any oversector. The most deserving among the Moffs shall take up that mantle. As to the particulars of your assignment…"

Then Palpatine paused, seemingly deep in thought, though his gaze never left Tarkin's face.

"You two will, as equals, form the fist of the Empire. You will function with discretion and resources the likes of which neither of you have known before. You will lead fleets and command armies, and be considered direct extensions of my will. Whichever region of space you occupy, be it an asteroid belt or an oversector, the two of you – both together and individually – will have unquestioned authority over all branches of Imperial governance installed there."

' _Both together and individually?_ ' So Vader and Tarkin brandished as much power as a pair as either did on their own? That arrangement, if made between anyone else Tarkin could think of, would spell chaos and ruin. They, however, could make it work, although it would be a strain compared to their current dynamic.

Palpatine continued. "Your new powers, however, do not come without a great many conditions. Foremost is this; as you hold authority over any sector of space you occupy, so too are you liable for any failures therein."

"Even those of the existing hierarchy?" Tarkin asked, astounded. "Would we be held accountable for the failures of officers we did not appoint?"

"It is the price for your failure," Palpatine replied. "If your officers fail you, then they are incompetent, and I am sure that if you find anyone so incompetent, Vader would be more than willing to… _dismiss_ them."

Tarkin looked at Vader, then back to Palpatine. Clearly, the former's preferred method of maintaining discipline had not escaped notice.

But this new degree of liability was ridiculous. It was outright malicious. To be made culpable for inadequacies in the existing Imperial hierarchy, just by their presence… it was a malevolent decision… it was _intended_ to result in failure!

"These new powers I confer on you are vast," The Emperor said. "And so too are your responsibilities. With these powers, I task you with one mission: quash this pathetic Rebellion before it can gain legitimacy. Uphold the new order, and do not fail me again, Tarkin."

"I will not, my Lord Emperor." Tarkin bowed his acceptance. "I will serve you as best I can, but…"

Palpatine observed him wordlessly, waiting for Tarkin to continue.

"…but this task you have set us… to be second in the Empire only to you; to range the breadth of the galaxy and crush dissidence wherever we find it… clearly, these objectives were envisioned with the Death Star in mind. Do you think they can still be achieved without it?"

"A most astute observation," the Emperor said, voice so cold that the sarcasm was lost within the sheer scorn. "That will be your trial, Tarkin. By your own failure you have deprived the Empire of its ultimate means of finally securing stability in the galaxy. Now, if you want your redemption, you must achieve the same goal without it. If you can do that, then all will be forgiven."

"You ask a great deal, my lord."

"And you have a great deal to answer for," was the Emperor's icy reply. "I do not ask anything, Tarkin. This is not a negotiation. I have outlined to you the means by which you may repay the Empire for your failings. You will do just that, or you will suffer the consequences that those failings merit."

"I understand, my Lord Emperor." Tarkin bowed yet again, which was beginning to feel as much like grovelling as his earlier explanation. "I will move the stars themselves if need be."

"If you must," Palpatine replied dismissively, sounding for all the galaxy as if the suggestion wasn't the height of hyperbole. "And now, Supreme Moff Tarkin, if you would leave us…. I would discuss Vader's failings more privately."

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. "Is that necessary, my Lord? There are very few secrets between us."

"So you think," the Emperor replied, his voice growing impatient. "It concerns matters that are not yours to know, and punishment for some blunders that are less excusable… particularly regarding a certain plan involving a tracking beacon."

Tarkin glanced at Vader, who made no response. Punishment for him, but not for Tarkin? It was a far cry from what he'd expected. More than that, it was beyond anything he could have imagined.

"As you wish, my lord." He bowed low and made his exit.

As Tarkin turned away, the rays of harsh light coming through the window dimmed, fading to dusk as the sun slipped below the horizon. Finally, for a few precious seconds, the throne room was finally given a reasonable, moderate illumination, although it would soon be shrouded in darkness again. In response the lighting panels above them started to glow dimly, slowly brightening to offset the fading light outside.

Palpatine started to speak to Vader in a low voice as Tarkin descended the steps and returned to the Turbolift. He was the first and likely only Supreme Moff – even if that role was one of penance, rather than victory – and yet there remained matters that were 'not his to know'. If that was truly so, and not an act of Palpatine begrudging Tarkin his ironic promotion, then he supposed they were matters that would _never_ be his to know. Perhaps they were rooted in the dark mysticism that the Emperor and his Apprentice practiced, of which Tarkin had to pretend he was oblivious.

Two things had become very clear to Tarkin. Firstly, the Emperor in no way expected Tarkin to succeed at the mission given him. Secondly – though very much in the same vein – he now knew why Tagge had spoken in Tarkin's favour. The General knew what tasks would fall to Tarkin, and thought as the Emperor did. Tagge had determined that It was much, much more favourable for himself if he let Tarkin try and fail, then take his place and pick up the pieces, rather than dethrone him now and voluntarily accept the gargantuan undertaking; an impossible undertaking, from Tagge's perspective… but not from Tarkin's.

Tarkin would prove him both wrong – and oust Tagge in the process, if need be. With Darth Vader at his side, the Emperor's authority at his back, and the whole of the Empire at his fingertips, he would hunt the rebels to extinction. Tarkin would find his redemption and bring order to the chaos of the galaxy, or stars damn it he would die trying.


	6. A Rebellious Interlude - The Lonely Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rebel Alliance regroups and considers their options, while Luke questions the legitimacy of his newly gained status as a hero

He was adrift in a void the colour of slate. It was as if the expansive deserts of Tatooine, rendered dusky in the half-light that followed sunset, had reared up and enfolded him; the entire galaxy consumed in a taupe fog.

It was cool, and more than that… damp - a sensation with which Luke was only passingly familiar. It felt so… alien. Something was wrong. He shouldn't be here. This damp void was a… a bad place.

And as if his awareness of its wrongness was some sort of catalyst, the void began to cool further, its hue shifting to that of shadowed durasteel. The dampness turned to a chilling coldness that felt as if it reached right into Luke's soul. He didn't know why, but it felt… black. Now it wasn't just this place that was wrong, there was something wrong with _him;_ something inside him was being turned necrotic by-

" _Luke…_ " Obi-Wan's voice echoed through his mind; kindly, comforting. In an instant it warmed the steely grey that encircled him, brightening it to a gauzy off-white.

He twitched, a brief spasm of surprise as the chill left him, and Luke found himself unable to resist a reply. "Ben?"

If he had hoped to reach out and grab ahold of that voice, to keep it from slipping away as it had before, Luke had failed. He could _feel_ it there, this benevolent presence, but it remained elusive, immaterial… perhaps illusory? No. Fleeting it might be, but each time Ben Kenobi's voice echoed through Luke's mind, it was – without a doubt – tangible. It was the departed man's thoughts made real within Luke's own… somehow.

Luke hadn't known him long, but Obi-Wan Kenobi had been kind, and – for a lonesome day – a tantalizing link to his past, and his family. Ben had given Luke a sense of surety and purpose right as the rest of his life was collapsing around him.

And then Ben had died, cut down at the hands of Darth Vader, vanishing right before Luke's eyes, like some ghostly apparition giving up any pretence of physicality… and that seemed to fit. The moment of his death had been just as fleeting as his presence in Luke's life; no sooner had he walked in, than had he faded out.

"… _Luke…_ "

A ghostly apparition… that was more apt than it had any right to be. This voice had come to him three times now, always to guide him through a moment of mortal peril. The first, just moments after Ben had been struck down and while blaster bolts sizzled past Luke's head, had implored him to run, and he had. The second, as he had barrelled down a canyon of steel and death, a trio of TIE Fighters snapping at his heels, had called on him to ignore his targeting computer and put his faith in the force as he took the shot that stopped the Death Star.

And the third… that had come as he faced down a wall of turret fire, tasked with ferrying a precious beacon that would stop the Imperial advance and save his friends. Ben's disembodied voice had told him to trust his instincts, and fly with his feelings. The manoeuvres he'd performed after that; rolling and diving, threading through gaps barely larger than his own ship… that had been orders of magnitude more incredible than even his most daring paths through Beggar's Canyon. What he'd done when his mission was completed, though – skimming beneath the shields of a _moving_ Star Destroyer while evading an entire squadron of TIE Fighters – was something else, more fantastical than the most thrilling holodramas.

But Luke couldn't even take credit for it... not really. He couldn't think of a single turn he'd made in that whole battle that had been a conscious choice, but rather a force-attuned reflex. At times, his movements had been so automatic that it seemed wrong to even say that it had been him performing them. It was all the Force.

"… _Luke?_ " The voice was changing, becoming… inquisitive? No… concerned. Why? It was no longer holding back the cold. The chill was taking him again, and he was sinking-

" _Luke!_ "

A squall of anxious electronic wailing ripped through his awareness, and the void was rent apart.

An image flashed before him; a pair of charred skeletons, scraps of blackened flesh still clinging to the bones, sprawled across a bed of sun-baked sandstone and shrouded in acrid smoke. An empty robe fluttered down out of a brilliant, oversaturated sky to drape over the bodies, but as it settled, it didn't make the rustling of shifting fabric but instead the mechanical _whoosh_ of air being sucked into a mask.

Luke's eyes flew open, and he took a shuddering breath.

He was in the cockpit of an X-Wing – _his_ X-Wing, now – surrounded on all sides by the star-speckled black of deep space. The last thing he remembered was looking out at the mottled blue of Hyperspace, leaning his head against the edge of his canopy, and…

R2D2 was beeping and whirring, causing the snub fighter to rock as he shifted in his socket. The little droid must have handled the reversion to realspace.

" _Kid!_ " Han's voice crackled in his helmet audio kit. " _You okay?_ "

"Uh, yeah, sorry. I'm fine," Luke mumbled, rubbing at one of his bleary eyes. When he spoke, his tongue was dry, and though his cockpit was at an unremarkably neutral temperature, Luke thought that he could still feel a trace of that chill, causing his extremities to tingle. He felt awful.

" _You sure?_ " The smuggler asked, his voice dropping down to his normal Corellian drawl. For some reason, his words came with a sombre, weary tone. "You were drifting for a long time there."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Luke was glad the smuggler couldn't see his embarrassment. "I – uh – fell asleep."

This time the voice that came over the com channel was that of Han's co-pilot, Chewbacca. Luke didn't understand the Wookiee's bestial speech, but the tone of it seemed amused… and perhaps chiding?

"I'm _sorry_ ," he repeated, defensiveness colouring his words. "What's going on?"

"We're at the rendezvous point." Han said. "The rest of us are turning in. You should too. Get some rest."

Chewbacca growled something and the smuggler gave a single laugh. "Yeah, if he still needs it."

"Okay, right. You never know what tomorrow brings." Luke said. Now he controlled his tone carefully. Those words were Han's, spoken to him on Yavin IV just minutes before an Imperial Star Destroyer had entered the system. Then, Han was advocating his principles of 'not getting tied down' and 'seeking a more fluid state of employment', trying to explain to Luke why – after all that had happened – he still intended to leave the Rebel Alliance and resume his life as a smuggler. Luke had disagreed in the strongest terms.

Han grunted, the meaning of the sound indiscernible. Luke heard the beginnings of a second vocalization from Chewbacca, but it was cut off as the com channel closed. Perhaps he should have held his tongue.

Luke sighed, continuing to rub at his eyes. "How about you, Artoo? How are those new circuits holding up?"

The droid gave a content whistle, the translation scrolling across the X-Wing's terminal. Luke found that most of the time he could understand the Droid's meaning just from his tone. The text translations – rudimentary as they were – provided certainty, but seldom much detail. Only when the droid committed to a detailed explanation – which required long sequences of beeps and whines in the Astromech's binary language – was the translator a vital tool.

"Well that's good." Luke wrapped his hand around the flight stick and began to yaw the fighter, looking for the other ships. "Maybe _you'll_ stick around."

The droid's answer was a descending set of concerned beeps.

Luke shrugged, although R2 couldn't see him. "I don't know. He'll do what's right for him, I guess."

R2 gave a low, sad ' _Wooooo_ ', and they lapsed into silence.

As he looped around, Luke caught sight of not just the _Nautilian_ , but three other massive Mon Calamari star cruisers. Two of them had a wider design than the _Nautilian_ , the wing-like flanges making them more reminiscent of growth-covered Star Destroyers. Luke didn't know them by sight or name, but the third ship – one which matched the _Nautilian_ in basic shape, despite featuring fewer, larger protrusions – Luke had heard described by Alliance members during the evacuation of Yavin. It was the _Home One_ , newly anointed as the flagship of the Rebel Fleet after the loss of its predecessor over Scarif. Luke knew that it had been leading the other two star cruisers to aid in the evacuation before the Imperials had pre-empted them, and had been diverted once the moon was successfully abandoned

He could see three smaller ships swooping in toward the _Home One_ ; an X-Wing, Y-Wing, and the _Millennium Falcon_ , strung out in a long line as they made for the star cruiser's hangar bay.

Dourly, Luke throttled up from idle to follow them. The other craft were already inside and out of sight by the time Luke had fallen in for his own approach, and he was alone. For the minute that the _Home One_ slowly grew to engulf the view of his cockpit, the frigates and other capital ships drifting behind and around it with nothing else but the pinpricks of stars for light years… Luke _felt_ alone; alone and empty, like a hollow had formed in his abdomen that his stomach was threatening to topple into.

He had only been introduced to the X-Wing the previous day, Luke had never attempted landing it – or any other ship, for that matter – in a carrier. Stars, two days ago the only thing he'd ever flown was his skyhopper.

Luke elected to approach with extreme caution, so that he would avoid flattening himself against the hangar's interior wall. That would be an ironic end to not only his life, but his newfound reputation as a crack pilot.

He was skimming close to the _Home One_ 's surface now, almost as close as his death-defying sortie over the Star Destroyer, and close enough to distinguish the mottled patchwork of plates that demarked the countless points where combat modifications had been inserted into the ship's hull.

Luke throttled down to a trickle of thrust as his X-Wing reached the hangar opening, its lip demarked by the glowing white loop of the atmospheric shield. They crossed the threshold at minimal speed and Luke flicked over to the snub fighter's repulsorlifts and landing lights.

The hangar was sparsely populated, with ample room to land. Most of its complement, tucked into cradles recessed from the main bay, looked to be recommissioned A-Wings so aged and worn that they were little better than junk. In the hangar proper Luke could see another piece of junk – The Millennium Falcon – settled near to the back wall on the right side, while Wedge's X-Wing and Gold Three's Y-Wing had landed to the left. If they'd been guided to those places, was it because they were leaving room for more expected ships? And if so, where would they be coming from?

He thought to yaw right and settle by the _Falcon_ , but a deck officer wielding glow-tipped marshalling wands was directing him to land alongside the other fighter craft. Luke lowered his landing gear and followed the instructions, settling beside the two ships and in front of a waiting fighter technician with a maintenance cart.

Luke powered down the X-wing's various systems, a process that he was sure would have been a quick task for a more experienced pilot, but which for him was a painstaking process of scrutinizing the labels of the various tactile switches arrayed around his cockpit, comparing them to a mental reference of his old skyhopper, and switching off the ones that seemed the least incorrect. After several arduous minutes, Luke was left with only the interface terminal still powered on.

"Artoo, are you going to stay here?" he asked.

The astromech chirped in the affirmative, and the terminal translated that he would need to help with diagnostics.

"Alright," Luke nodded – though, still, the droid couldn't see him do so. "Just come and meet up later, okay? I don't know where we'll be, so you might need to plug in to find us."

The droid gave a second affirmative sound, this one followed by a conclusory set of descending beeps.

Luke powered off the terminal and thumbed the cockpit release. As the canopy eased upward and gave him more clearance he undid his helmet strap and pulled it free of his head, and then stripped off his flight gloves so he could rub his brow.

Granted a moment to himself, Luke pondered his sour mood. Was it because of Han? Because of Biggs? Because of the transports that – despite their best efforts – had been shot down or disabled during the evacuation? He shouldn't feel this way; not after the incredible things he'd accomplished in the last day.

But, again he hadn't really done anything. Well, he'd rescued Leia Organa, but that had been much more the doing of Han, Chewie, Ben, and even the princess herself than him. And – as he'd realized – his impossible shot at the Death Star and manoeuvring over Yavin had been the Force acting through him; not his own skill. So maybe the outcome itself was something to be celebrated, but his part in it all seemed cursory, almost debatable. He was a farm boy from Tatooine that just happened to cross paths with two very important droids. Was that the force too?

"Hey!" someone yelled at him, causing Luke to start in his seat. "You going to take any longer, or should I get myself a damn chair?"

It was the fighter tech, leaning on his maintenance cart, a heavy scowl on his face.

"Oh, sorry!" Luke scrambled to his feet, fumbling to keep hold of his helmet and gloves as he climbed out of the cockpit and onto the landing ladder. "I didn't realize."

" _Didn't realize_ ," the tech grumbled at him, pushing his cart up beside the fighter even as Luke dismounted at the bottom of the ladder. "Damn cockpit jockeys. Always think the whole galaxy revolves around you."

"I…" Luke faltered. "I'm sorry."

"Sure." The tech flicked him an irritated look and started unspooling various interface-ended cables from the cart. "If you love the damn thing so much you can spend the night in it, just _after_ I've done my job."

Luke didn't apologize a third time, cowed by the technician's scorn. Tentatively, he asked "Uh, you need my droid, right?"

"Of course I need the damn droid," the man snapped at him, and Luke instantly regretted asking. The technician went to bend over his cart, but stopped and gave Luke another irritated glance. "Will you get out of here? I can't work with you standing there, gaping like a stunned Mynock."

Luke couldn't comply fast enough, turning on the spot and walking away. He heard the pilot continue to grumble – so loudly that grumble seemed the wrong word – as he left, while Artoo responded with alternating defensive and accusatory tones.

It was when he reached the middle of the hangar, still flustered and abashed, that Luke realized that he didn't know where he was going. He stopped, the too-loud echoing of his steps ceasing, and looked around.

The deck officer that had directed him from this spot a few minutes earlier was gone, his marshalling beacons dulled and inserted into indentations in the floor. To his right was the shielded bay opening, which gave a fine view of a drifting frigate. To the left was the hangar's rear wall, which featured multiple sets of personnel doors at floor level, and rows of control room windows near to the ceiling.

Luke glanced back at the trio of starfighters – his now riddled with diagnostic cables inserted into various ports – and then looked ahead, at the _Millennium Falcon._ Perhaps Han was still aboard, or Chewie… but he doubted that they would know where to go either. Still, confusion together was better than confusion alone, and standing out in the centre of the nearly-barren hangar wasn't helping alleviate that gnawing sensation of being so fundamentally, existentially alone.

He approached the _Falcon_ from behind, ducking under the lip of the wide engine nacelle. There came an echo from inside the ship of metal striking metal, followed closely by Chewbacca's frustrated growling. At least the Wookiee was around, although he sounded preoccupied.

The sound of people speaking reached Luke's ears when the echo of the clang faded, and he rounded the inside of one of the freighter's thick landing gears to find three people standing in front of the lowered entry ramp. There was Han, leaning against one of the hydraulic arms, and across from him was Wedge and a woman with blond hair, both wearing orange flight suits to match Luke's.

"It looks pretty bad," Wedge was saying. "I'm surprised you could make a jump at all with so many components fried."

The woman nodded her agreement. "I wouldn't even consider taking off until repairs are done if I were you. You'd better settle in."

"Well it's a good thing I'm _not_ you, sweetheart," Han drawled, and the woman scowled. "The _Falcon_ 's tougher than you think. A quick patch job and she'll be fine. All you idealist types just love finding reasons why I should stick around. I already saved your damn skins twice now; you trying to convert me all the way?"

"Han," Luke reprimanded, not realizing what he was doing until the words were already spoken.

All three turned to him, Han's look of surprise lasting only a moment before turning into a smirk. "What're you doing under there? Think you can fix her up all by yourself?"

Luke flushed under their combined gaze, stepping into the illumination of the falcon's forward landing lights. "I think you're the one that needs fixing." The words came out more hostile than he'd intended.

Han's smirk broke into an open grin. "Well listen to you! Only one day and you're preaching with the best of them." He nodded at the other two. "Why you're just the ideal recruit, ain't ya?"

"More than you, I guess." Luke shrugged. "What's the problem?"

"Ugh." Han's smirk fell, and Luke was left with the impression that it had only been a façade; that the weary, hollow voice that he'd heard over the com channel was the truth that Han was trying to hide. "We got pinched by a couple of those interceptors in the battle and one of 'em managed to gave the _Falcon_ a new set of piercings."

"Pretty bad?" Luke asked, to which Wedge responded with a nod.

Han sighed. "Yeah… We probably won't be going anywhere for a while." He inclined his head toward Gold Three, who gave a cool smile, vindicated. "Chewie's checking out the internals, but… well, he's got the know-how of a good mechanic, but let's just say he doesn't have the disposition."

Another clang of metal on metal and the roar of a frustrated Wookiee reverberated from inside the freighter, and Han lifted a hand as if to say, 'you see?'

"Looks like you're gonna need a hand from the idealist types." Wedge gave an amused smile, shaking his head. "Luke, where'd you say you picked this guy up?"

"I'm the one that picked _him_ up," Han said, though Luke ignored him.

"In a hive of scum and villainy," Luke said, maybe because Ben's death was still weighing heavy on his mind. The others only gave him questioning looks, and he shrugged. "A cantina on Tatooine, and not a nice one."

Han gave a shrug of his own, though he looked irked at being compared to scum. "Hey, you came looking for me. You knew what you were going to find."

"I didn't. Ben did," Luke replied, and Han rolled his eyes.

"I don't think that old kook knew his left hand from his right. With how things turned out, he didn't even know how to hold that saber of his."

That was too much. Anger flared bright within Luke and – yet again without a thought beforehand – he found himself speaking.

"Why would you say that?! You know that's not true."

Han waved a dismissive hand, and Luke took a step closer.

"I mean it," he said. "Take it back."

Han gave him a look that Luke could only identify as dismissive. "What's got under your skin?"

"You have." Luke's face was set into a scowl. " _Take it back._ "

Han sniffed, taking a laconic step back and turning sidelong to Luke. "I don't have time for this. I'm gonna find a tech that can help me get outta here." He turned to go, then gave Luke another glance. "Kid, I know you were probably enjoying your nap, but you don't gotta be so cranky just because I woke you."

And he walked away, toward one of the several blast doors that led out of the hangar. Where he was going, Luke had no idea. For the moment, he didn't care.

After glaring at the back of Han's head for a few seconds more, Luke's temper suddenly faded. He was left feeling even more hollow than before.

It was like his physical being was stretched thin. Was this how Han felt? Did he sound like Han had over the commlink? Was this why they were antagonizing each other?

Sheepish, Luke turned to Wedge and the other pilot. "Uh, sorry about that. I think we're both kinda stressed.."

The woman snorted. "Forget him. Can't expect a drifter to understand."

Luke looked at her, not knowing what to say. He didn't want to forget Han. He couldn't just write him off. The smuggler pair had put themselves in harm's way when it mattered most – not just once, but twice now. They couldn't toss him aside after that, especially not because he just wasn't as dedicated as her or Wedge… or him?

"Sorry about what?" Wedge asked, his face breaking into a grin as his words broke into Luke's train of thought. "Do you have any idea how many lives you saved today? Luke, that flying was _incredible_. I'm waiting to watch a holo because I can't believe some of the things I saw with my own eyes."

"Thanks," Luke said, a hesitant, abashed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't him. He didn't deserve this praise. "I didn't really do anything special. Without the cruiser backing me up I'd have been hot dust."

He tried not to think of the frigate they'd lost. How many had there been aboard?

"Are you _kidding?_ " Gold Three said, aghast. "Nothing special? It looked like you were doing more than alright before the ship came in."

Luke looked away, not knowing what to say. She didn't understand. Neither of them did.

"You guys did great," he finally mumbled. "Holding off those fighters, just the three of you."

"Is he serious?" The woman looked at Wedge. He shrugged, and she turned back to Luke. "You need to learn to take a compliment."

"It's been a long day," Wedge said, much to Luke's relief. "How about I get our bunk assignments, and we all get some shut eye before the fleet moves out again?"

Luke wasn't tired, but it was a good excuse to get out of the conversation, so he nodded, as did the third pilot.

"Okay, I'll be quick. Oh, and we're probably expecting more ships, so you guys should clear out too." Wedge thumbed at an exit adjacent to the one Han had just used. "Meet up over there?"

"Sure," Gold Three said. "Come on, Major Modest."

Luke felt a flash of irritation, but he obliged her, falling into step while Wedge jogged ahead. Seemed like he knew his way around.

They walked in silence, footsteps echoing through the hangar, and Luke observed that the woman's face was set in a hard line, brow furrowed. They were all on edge after that close call with the Imperials. But with her it seemed like something else was at play, more even than Han's jibes – though he couldn't imagine what it was, and wasn't sure if he should ask.

Luke glanced up and down the length of the corridor when they reached the exit door. There was a steady stream of ship crew moving in either direction, one or two passing by every few seconds. Wedge had already disappeared deeper into the ship, with no indication as to which direction he'd gone.

The woman shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "He said he wouldn't be long, but we might be waiting a while. I'd be surprised if there's already bunk assignments for all the new arrivals."

"Right." Luke stood in the centre of the doors for a few awkward seconds, then joined the woman in leaning against its side.

With the silence between them becoming uncomfortable he couldn't help looking at either end of the corridor. Each time he expected Wedge's vibrant jumpsuit to reappear… but he didn't, and so they loitered, awaiting Wedge's return with ever-dwindling patience.

The trickle of ship crew flowed by, some ignoring them, others offering nods of greeting. After a while, however, one came to a sharp stop, a surprised look on his face.

"H-hey! You're Skywalker, right?" He looked at Luke with something that was at the middle awe and deference. "Luke Skywalker? You took out the Death Star! That was incredible. I've seen the recordings a dozen times already and I can't figure out how you pulled it off."

There was something awkward about his praise. It was bumbling, almost abashed, like the man couldn't figure out how to address Luke. He was just a pilot, but one with now _two_ incredible achievements under his belt. It was like his reflex was to treat Luke as a superior, even though – for all Luke knew – the crewmember might outrank him.

Only then did Luke realize that the crewmember had offered his hand in greeting and had been holding it outstretched for several seconds. He flushed with embarrassment, then grasped it and shook. "Uh, yeah, that's me. Pleasure to meet you."

"Oh no, Mister Skywalker, the pleasure's all mine. Really," the crewmember emphasized, vigorously pumping Luke's hand up and down. "You've done great things for the Alliance. I wish I could say I've done even a tenth as much."

"Oh, you know…" Luke shrugged, almost squirming with embarrassment, but trying to maintain a friendly demeanour. He couldn't slip away; not with the man's hands firmly enfolding his own. "Everyone's important, in their own way. I'm sure you do great work."

Aunt Beru would have been proud of that one. He wanted to argue that he hadn't done anything special, but if his conversation with Wedge and Gold Three was any indicator, it would just prolong the interaction and put them in an awkward loop of praise and denial.

"You're a good man," the crewman replied, still pumping Luke's hand. "The Rebellion couldn't even hope for better. Keep it up and we'll be sitting pretty in the Imperial Palace this time next year."

Luke didn't know what to say to that, so he just laughed, and managed to extract his hand from the melee. That seemed to be the crew member's cue to go.

He offered Luke an exaggerated nod – a gesture made all the stranger by the fact that he'd just spent a straight minute shaking Luke's hand. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Mr Skywalker."

"You too… man." Luke returned the nod, well aware that he had no idea as to the man's name, but also knowing that to ask now would be to invite him to linger even longer.

The crew member nodded yet again and resumed his trip down the corridor, his pace brisk. When he was out of earshot Luke leaned back against the frame of the door and sighed.

"Mister Skywalker?" he repeated, under his breath. That sounded so… deferent. It was strange.

It was then that Gold Three leaned forward, holding out her own hand. "Luke Skywalker? Evaan Verlaine." She said it like they hadn't been standing beside each other for the last five minutes; as if they hadn't gone so long without introducing themselves that it had become awkward to try.

After a moment's hesitation, Luke accepted the offer and shook, finding her greeting more reserved than the crewmember's. "Pleased to meet you. You're a really great pilot."

"You're better," Evaan said, voice deadpan and without even a hint of hesitation. "What that guy said was pure Sabaac, you know."

"It was?" Luke asked. Was she already going to steer the conversation back to this? Couldn't she take a hint?

"Yeah. Your flying is _incredible_. It's like nothing I've ever seen before, and I've been with the Rebellion for a good couple of years now." She leaned back against the door frame, giving all the appearances of casual conversation. "What's your secret? How do you pull off all those crazy tricks?"

"I mean… it's not really something I do consciously," Luke said. It was essentially true, even if it did omit context. "I just… do."

"You turn off your targeting computer and make a bullseye on a two-meter-wide port… subconsciously?" Verlaine quirked an eyebrow, unconvinced and unamused. "What, your droid do it for you?"

Luke laughed uneasily, hoping that would be response enough. Evidently not.

"You know, you're pretty cagey for someone that just became a war hero overnight," Evaan said. "And pretty downtrodden for someone that just gave the Empire the nastiest black eye its ever had. I can appreciate not gloating, but being _this_ modest is… it's weird, Skywalker."

Luke shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant and instead looking as if he'd had a minor muscle spasm. "I just don't really… uh… want to talk about it. You know?"

Evaan gave him a searching look. "You don't mean… you don't feel _bad_ about what you did, do you?"

Luke started. Did he feel bad? Was that why he felt so empty? The idea didn't resonate with him like some hidden truth revealed, but it did seem like something he should have considered.

"There were a lot of people on the Death Star," he said, thinking aloud. "And not all of them were troopers." He didn't know how many people had died when his torpedo had gutted the station, and how many of them had been mere crewmen or maintenance workers?

That hadn't meant to sound like an affirmation, but it seemed that he'd said the absolute worst thing possible, judging by the way Verlaine's face suddenly looked like it had turned to stone.

"There were a lot more on Alderaan, and _none_ of them were combatants," Evaan replied fiercely. "When you're an engineer that gets assigned to something that kills planets, if you don't desert, you're complicit. You're maintaining a heinous death machine. If you didn't do your job, it wouldn't be able to fire. Are you really better than the guy who actually pulls the trigger? You're _helping_ pull the trigger."

"Uh, yeah," Luke said, a little taken aback and hoping to appease Evaan. "Yeah, you're right."

She was undeniably passionate, and obviously believed what she said… but it didn't do anything to lift Luke's spirits. Certainly, it didn't help Luke find the cause of this hollow sensation. That was something else.

Evaan looked ready to continue, when a medley of voices filled the hallway, growing louder as the source came closer. Luke looked over Evaan's shoulder, and she turned to watch as a cluster of important-looking sentients approached from down the hallway. There were several senior Officers Luke didn't recognize and a Mon Calamari sporting rank plaques he couldn't decipher. Among them, though, were some faces he knew. He saw General Jan Dodonna – who had devised the flight plan for the Death Star attack and the scheme for the slave-rigged shuttle – and Princess Leia Organa.

Luke gave Leia a small wave, and she responded with a familiar nod. Then her eyes moved off him and stopped on Verlaine, an unreadable look coming across Leia's face. She stepped out of line and reached out to the other woman, who likewise stepped forward.

They met halfway, grasping eachothers' forearms and sharing a look that was pure meaning and emotion – all of it indecipherable.

"We're not giving up. _We're not,_ " Leia said, and then broke the contact, slipping back into the assembly of Rebel leadership as they entered the hangar. What had that been about?

Luke watched them cross the bay, moving to meet a shuttle that was approaching the hangar's atmospheric shields. He looked at Verlaine, one eyebrow raised.

"I didn't realize you and Leia were working together. Have you known her long?" He asked.

"No," Evaan replied. "Well, I knew of her, and I was even tutored by her mother – Queen Breha – but we only met just yesterday, during the evacuation. Totally by chance."

Luke glanced back at Leia's group, who were now converging in front of the newly-arrived shuttle. Then he looked at Verlaine, the reason for her fury crystalizing in his mind.

"You're from Alderaan," he said, and she nodded. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" She shook her head. "What does being sorry help? You got them back; just the beginning of getting justice for what they did. Now just do it a thousand more times and we'll be even."

It was like Evaan's entire person had been cast in a new light. She'd known Leia for only a day, and it seemed like the two already shared a meaningful connection – an instantaneous bond formed in the void left by a total loss. Luke couldn't imagine what sort of impact having _everything_ you knew destroyed had. Knowing that not only was your home destroyed, your family and every important person in your life dead, but that there wasn't even somewhere to go to mourn them; the _planet_ was gone. It was a loss so sudden and absolute that it was hard to comprehend. When Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were killed, Luke thought he'd lost everything, but Evaan and Leia… they'd lost _everything_.

He didn't know how to respond to that. Eventually, he said the only thing he could think of; that self-same truth. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Nobody does," Evaan replied. "None that I've talked to, anyway. It's all like what you've been doing. The apologies, the sympathy, the silences. Nobody knows how to react to a whole… your whole planet..." her voice quavered, and she broke off. After a few seconds, she continued. "I don't know either."

Luke felt a tightness in his throat, which he remedied with a dry swallow and a cough. His preoccupation with his own worries suddenly seemed… not petty, or trivial, but insignificant; meaningful in their own way and meaningful to him… but dwarfed in every conceivable way by the scale of the tragedy that had befallen those around him.

The cluster of Alliance leaders were approaching again. They seemed to have only grown by one person; a woman with auburn hair and slender features, dressed in flowing white robes that were ornamented only by a metal amulet. She walked in the centre of the procession, seeming to be holding several conversations at once. Luke didn't know her by sight, but her presence exuded authority, and he'd put down credits – if he'd had any – that she was the Alliance's chancellor he had heard others refer to.

The procession reached their door and Leia – walking abreast of the chancellor – waved him over. Luke, not trusting his ability to read her movements, pointed a questioning finger at himself. Leia, apparently finding this insufficient, called them by name.

"Luke, Evaan, come on."

She hadn't raise her voice but her mention of Luke's name seemed to cause the other woman – the one who had just arrived – to start. She came to a stop, and the general burble of conversation died out. The woman looked at Luke and Evaan, then Leia.

The princess inclined her head. "Chancellor Mothma, I'd like to introduce you to Evaan Verlaine and Luke Skywalker." She looked as if she were about to say more, but the Chancellor pre-empted her, stepping out of the group and approaching the pilots.

The members of the procession seemed to flow around her, the act of moving among them looking so graceful and effortless that the Chancellor almost seemed to glide.

She stopped in front of them, and Luke found that for the third time that day, he was shaking a stranger's hand. What was strange about this time, was that he hadn't been aware that the exchange had occurred until his hand was released. Dumbfounded, he watched as Mothma took Verlaine's hand and shook it as well, the movement so smooth and practiced that Evaan seemed likewise unaware it was happening until halfway through the greeting.

"Mister Skywalker," Mothma greeted him. This time, those words didn't sound awkward, but natural, like no name could suit him better. "Miss Verlaine. It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintances."

"Uh, likewise," Luke said. There was something about the Chancellor that was completely disarming, like she knew the exact way to carry herself and speak that he couldn't help but let her continue.

"It has only been a short while, but I have already heard a great deal about you both," Mothma continued, and – as if to show that what she said wasn't merely lip service – adding "And likewise your comrades; Wedge Antilles, and the crew of the _Millennium Falcon_. You have, all of you, rendered a greater service to the Alliance than we could ever ask from so few of our number."

Perhaps he should have realized it two conversations ago, but it was at that moment that – what seemed like – the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. This was how every discussion would go for the next week, or the next month, or the next year. He could hang up his flight suit that evening and hide himself away washing dishes in the star cruiser's mess hall, and every interaction for the foreseeable future – maybe forever – would still be " _You're the guy that stopped the Death Star, right?_ "

The whole realization passed through his mind in a moment, but he managed to keep the sadness it brought him from showing. Outwardly, he tried his best to deflect it.

"Thank you, but… I had a lot of help. Han, Wedge, Evaan…" he paused. "And everyone who didn't make it. Without all of them, we couldn't have… I…" Luke paused again, then trailed off. He'd heard a lot of final words in the fighting over the Death Star, and now they were bubbling to the surface of his awareness at his unintended bidding. His thoughts were too scattered, and worse, he couldn't shake the feeling that contradicting the Chancellor's praise in front of so many onlookers was wrong.

Mothma nodded slowly, at first saying nothing. Unlike the others, she seemed to be considering his words, looking for the meaning behind them. That would be difficult, considering even Luke wasn't sure of the whole of his intentions.

And yet, it seemed she found her answer. Mothma smiled sadly and turned askance, beckoning to him. "Please, would you join me?"

Luke moved to do as she asked, but then stopped and looked at Evaan. She looked back at him but made no attempt to follow. Evidently, she didn't think the invitation extended to her. As much as Luke wanted to think this wasn't about him, he had to admit that Verlaine was probably right – although he doubted the Chancellor would object if she joined him.

Apprehensive, he approached Mothma and joined her in walking down the hallway. The rest of the procession, which had previously clustered tightly around the chancellor, gave them a wide circle of space to speak.

"Mister Skywalker, I admire your sense of priority. I can think of many members of the Alliance – good people whom I would trust with my life – that, had they accomplished what you have, would have forgotten the sacrifices that helped them to their overnight fame." The Chancellor offered him an understanding nod. "Indeed, you reached my point before I could broach the subject myself. It was those unfortunate sacrifices I hoped to speak of."

"One of the things that you aren't told about fighting for what is right…" she began, her voice measured and soft. "Is what you might see on the way to accomplishing those goals; Terrible violence, loved-ones' lives cut short and the bodies of both friends and foes alike gathered in horrifying numbers. It can… and often is… very traumatic."

Luke blinked. Mothma spoke with such poise, but her message was poignantly direct. "You think I might be traumatized, ma'am?"

"I think that it never hurts to undergo an examination, especially after significant events."

"…Like the Death Star."

"Like the Death Star," Mothma agreed. "The station had, by our estimation, a crew of at least one million people, and we expect that a not-insignificant amount of that crew must now be dead. Some people might find that… upsetting."

"I've… I've just been thinking about that," Luke said, feeling it was best to leave it at that. He felt reassured that the Chancellor didn't seem to share Evaan's starker, less forgiving mindset.

"I would be surprised if you hadn't," Mothma replied. "And that's why I must make of you… a rather unusual request."

Luke was silent, not knowing what to say, and so she continued.

"The means by which we fight the Empire – or, indeed, accomplish any of our goals – are… not always intuitive. Sometimes, they are so unintuitive that they even seem contrary, or self-defeating." Mothma paused, and Luke expected that she was about to reach the point of their conversation.

"So, if I were to ask you if you wanted to avoid being put in situations in the future where you had to take so many lives to save your friends…" She trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

"I would say yes," Luke responded, wary that such a question felt extremely loaded. "Strongly."

"And I would tell you that as long as it holds power, the Empire will continue to build superweapons; ones that will carry a great many crewmembers and kill as indiscriminately as the Death Star did in destroying Alderaan – unless we continue to stop them."

"I see," Luke said, although really he didn't understand how this played back into her request.

"And I would go on to say that, therefore, in order to avoid killing so many circumstantially involved personnel, we would need to remove the Empire's ability to keep building superweapons and growing their fleet."

"That sounds a lot like just toppling the Empire, Ma'am," Luke said.

"It is exactly that," Mothma nodded. "But the longer it takes, the more death there will be along the way."

"And how would I be able to speed it up?" Luke sincerely hoped she wasn't going to suggest his piloting was the answer.

"Well, that's where the matter of counter-intuitive methods arises," the Chancellor said. Luke felt a knot form in his stomach, and one hand reflexively fell to touch at the lightsaber that hung from his belt. He knew what the contrary method for preventing deaths would be. What else could it be?

"If we can increase recruitment by any means necessary, we can crew more ships, fight more aggressively, and take on more significant engagements," the Chancellor continued. "With greater numbers we would not only increase our odds of being victorious, but also shorten the conflict and save more lives in the grand scheme of things."

That wasn't quite what Luke had expected. Enlisting more civilians – people like him, really – into the war… endangering more lives to try and win quickly…

"I… I see how that could be called counter-intuitive," he said.

"Indeed. But, hoping you follow my line of reasoning, if I were to ask you to lend your face; your name; perhaps even voice for our recruitment efforts, with that goal in mind… would you be willing to do that, for the Alliance?"

Luke turned his eyes down, examining the floor plates passing beneath his feet as he contemplated her request.

Truth be told, if the Chancellor hadn't put so much emphasis on the seriousness of her proposal, he would have agreed without a second thought. Now, it seemed like something that demanded proper consideration. Letting the rebellion use his face for recruitment posters – maybe his name too. He might have to record lines. Could he do that?

There would probably be a lot of focus on the battle over the Death Star. It would make him a target, but…would that really change much? He might have the benefit of anonymity outside the Rebellion, but whether he agreed or didn't, the Imperials would eventually know who had stopped their ultimate weapon. Too many people in the Alliance knew the truth for it to stay there. Word would get out, and being used as a symbol for recruitment would be nothing to the Empire compared to crippling their prized battle station.

But was the Chancellor right? Did he believe her when she said that bringing more into the Rebel cause would save lives in the long run? More soldiers meant more battles. More battles meant more death. But more soldiers also meant more victories… he had no idea. Mothma was clearly more experienced than him, but could she really know that for sure?

"I'm not sure," he finally said. "I need to think about it some more."

"I understand," Mothma said, and when Luke looked at her, she offered him a reassuring smile. "I'm not at liberty to discuss our tactics in open spaces, but I believe we have some time before I would need to call on you for your answer."

"Thank you." Luke nodded, and then – becoming aware of a sense of urgency from those around them, said "Oh, I probably shouldn't keep you from the others."

The Chancellor, however, seemed troubled. Luke glanced around, and realized that the sense of urgency did not come from the ring of Rebel leaders encircling them, but from the many crew members that flowed around them. He couldn't make out any individual conversation, but the tones of everyone speaking sounded alarmed, or surprised. Was the fleet under attack?

Luke looked around at the constant stream of crew flowing around them and – catching a flash of flight-suit-orange – spied Wedge Antilles weaving his way through the hallway.

"Wedge!" he called, waving one hand for visibility. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure!" the pilot shouted back, pushing through the flow of people until he reached their group. "There's something happening. I'm not sure what but it's got everyone distracted. Just heard two members of the crew saying that everyone was heading for the gallery."

Luke's stomach seized again. Whatever that was, he had serious doubts it was good. He looked to Chancellor Mothma, who in turn nodded and gestured to the rest of the group. They began to move again, the space that had been given for their conversation contracting back into a cluster as they joined the crew.

Their procession followed the flow of people to the end of the hall and to the left, then to the right a few meters later. There, they found the corridor was already packed with people, all of them converging on a set of double doors that let into the ship's forward galley. Along the way, he kept spying familiar faces in the crush of people; mostly personnel that had been evacuated from the Yavin system.

The going was slow, and their group became fractured in their attempts to wind in between the members of the ship's crew. The others in the crowd – recognizing figures like Mothma, Dodonna, Leia, and the various other members of the Rebel leadership – pressed themselves to the side as best they could to offer passage.

Eventually, having lost track of half the people he'd began the journey with, Luke managed to squeeze through the opening into the gallery, which was also packed full of onlookers.

He saw Leia and Evaan ahead – somehow – both of them still moving through the crowd, so Luke followed them. As he did, he looked around the gallery. It was an artefact of the ship's origins as a luxury liner; the three-story high space now serving as an atrium, rather than the shopping promenade it had been designed as. The walkways that wrapped the room on the floors above were likewise brimming with people, and every eye was pointed expectantly at a hologram being projected from a ceiling emitter in the centre of the space.

The hologram looked like it could be a static image, showing six stern-looking humans in Imperial officer's uniforms, arranged in trios on either side of the image. In the centre, a plain lectern stood unoccupied. Behind that was what looked like a plain stretch of starship bulkhead with the Imperial symbol on it. Or… no… _projected_ onto it. The setup in the holo looked extremely ad-hoc, especially for a force as massive and powerful as the Empire.

Reaching where Leia and Evaan had stopped, Luke found the princess engaged in a hushed conversation with Han. The smuggler glanced at him as the conversation ended, one eyebrow raised.

"You cooled your jets yet?" he asked.

Luke rolled his eyes, but nodded, then murmured "What's going on?"

"Don't know," Han replied. "Been talking with a guy from comms who said that this was forwarded from Mon Cala, and that it was sent through the Holonet's emergency broadcast system. Feed's been going for two minutes now and it's just those officers. Not sure what they're waiting for."

"Huh." Luke scanned the collection of stern Imperial faces. He had never seen much Imperial propaganda on Tatooine and had no idea if he was meant to recognize any of them.

"But _that_ is interesting," Han continued, pointing at the centre of the holo.

Between the two lines of hard-eyed humanoids was the vacant centre lectern, and behind it was a holoprojector inserting a graphic in front of a blank starship bulkhead. It was the classic Imperial circle, but – alongside the basic script for 'All Glory to the Empire' wrapping around either side of the circle, there was a word – a name of some sort – repeated once each along its upper and lower curves.

 _EMCOMREIS_. What was that? An acronym?

"Something related to COMPNOR?" Han mused, but Luke didn't even know what that was.

He felt achingly aware of how little he knew of the Empire's structure. He didn't think many people would understand the extent of the Imperial government, but the Empire's presence on Tatooine had been so minimal – with the planet practically run by the Hutts – that Luke felt his understanding of the Empire's bureaucracy was seriously lacking.

"Never heard of it before," Han continued. "Might be new."

There was some movement on the feed, and yet another officer stepped into view. If the holonet feed hadn't already been unusual, the man's appearance put things squarely in the territory of strange. His movements seemed laboured, and even in profile it could be seen that his face was marred with bruises that were only partially covered by stage makeup. The complexity of his rank plate and the strange cylinders that accompanied it implied – to Luke, at least – that he held seniority, which was affirmed when he positioned himself behind the lectern and turned to the holorecorder.

The officer's face was haggard, with a strong, broad jawline and a hawkish topology to his nose, cheeks, and brow that – when combined with his sideburns and pomaded receding hairline – drew the eye toward his large forehead. Luke absorbed all that at a glance, and then found his eyes drawn to the officer's most distinguishing feature; the rows of metal sutures embedded in the skin of his neck and a latticework of external stent supports that ran the length of his trachea. The skin around the durasteel strictures was angry and inflamed. Looking at that along with the bruising on the officer's face it seemed obvious that whatever injuries the man had suffered, they were recent.

Leia drew a sharp breath. "I know him. Admiral Motti. He was on the Death Star bridge, when they destroyed Alderaan." Her face had taken on a ghostly pallor. " _He's still alive?!_ "

"That is Admiral Conan Antonio Motti," Mon Mothma's voice came from behind them, and Luke turned to look at her, only just realizing she was there. "He's a member of the Imperial Joint Chiefs, and a man of unbridled ambition."

"He should be dead," Leia hissed, barely audible. "Everyone from the bridge should be dead."

Luke blinked twice and looked back at the feed. This man was meant to be dead? Luke was supposed to have killed him? That… that was… wrong. Nobody was _meant_ to be dead.

Leia continued to whisper beside him, seemingly talking to herself. "I wonder if any of the others survived…" She looked even more ashen than she had just a moment ago.

"What do you think this is about?" He asked, but before anyone could respond, the Admiral began to speak.

"Loyal citizens of the Empire, I come before you with grim news. Our beloved Emperor Palpatine has been deceived, swayed by the lies of conceited autocrats and subversive fanatics." His voice was wet and gravelly, though not in a way that seemed natural. It was as if there were some physical obstruction in his throat – surely it was related to the sutures.

"At this very moment their machinations set our glorious Empire astray from the path of order and progress. With my own eyes, I have seen the spiteful depths of their avarice and arrogance bring about the ruin of one of the Empire's greatest works. An endeavour _two decades_ in the making, turned to dust in an instant by the ambition of Moff Tarkin, and the zealotry of the abomination, Darth Vader.

"These insidious figures have inserted themselves into the preeminent heights of Imperial power. They place themselves at the flanks of our glorious Emperor's throne, where they whisper their untruths and sow the seeds of deception. Their lies erode the sacrosanctity of Imperial rule and twist the will of our beloved Emperor Palpatine against the true needs of the galaxy. So deeply are they embedded into the highest echelons of the Empire, that no power may remove them other than a brave intervention by the loyal men and women of the Imperial Navy."

The Admiral's face – which until this point had been a mask of furious resolve – became sombre. "It is with a heavy heart that I shoulder this burden, for the good of the Empire. I pledge to you, loyal citizens, that I will free our Emperor from the black hand of these malignant foes, and deliver our Empire from those who, in the pursuit of their own interests, would strangle the very life from it." As he said this, Motti raised his free hand, fingers curled in a mimicry of the act of throttling someone. Then they curled into a fist, which the Admiral pressed against his chest.

"All glory to the Empire."

He held the pose for a few seconds while the officers arrayed on either side of the frame mirrored the salute. The motion was performed with the polished synchronization of military men, but the gesture itself was foreign to Luke, and he suspected that it wasn't one normally used in the Empire.

Then the feed jumped with a moment of corruption as it cut to an enlarged image of the Imperial icon. The spoked-wheel symbol was wrapped above and below by galactic basic lettering:

' _EMCOMREIS: The Emergency Commission for the Restoration of Imperial Security_ '.

The briefing room was filled with a stunned silence for several seconds after the feed finished. Surprisingly, it was Wedge who spoke first.

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

The silence broke immediately, the gallery filling with the babble of a hundred confused conversations.

Had that been… a declaration of war? Imperial admirals breaking away from the Empire? _Now_ , of all times? That should have lifted his spirits. Even if he didn't know anything about diplomacy or tactics, Luke understood that it would be an advantage. So why had the Admiral's words brought the hollowness back, so much stronger than before? Why did it make him feel so awful?

Luke looked at Han. His brow was furrowed in thought, but he didn't seem upset at all. Leia's ashen pallor was fading as she and Evaan held a hushed discussion, and both women had matching gleams in their eyes that Luke thought looked… conspiratorial. All three looked as if they hadn't been affected by the announcement anywhere near the way Luke had.

And despite the fact that they were standing in a room crowded with at least a thousand people, it made Luke feel more alone than ever before.

A hand touched lightly upon his shoulder, and then the Chancellor's voice came from behind him, a private murmur directly into his ear that seemed to come from so far away.

"I do not wish to hurry you, Mister Skywalker, but it seems that I may need your answer much sooner than anticipated."


	7. Vampiric Transactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WIth the Emperor's rage assuaged, Tarkin must now face the scrutiny of the Imperial Ruling Council, and convince them to support his plans.

Tarkin looked up as another flight of TIE fighters screeched overhead. They were high enough that the setting sun still illuminated them, the solar arrays on their hexagonal wings shining iridescent red and white.

Like those that had come before them, they were not the standard patrol trio, but instead a full complement of twelve moving at high throttle. The fighters made their pass so close to the Imperial Palace that – for a moment – Tarkin feared that they might open fire, strafing the Emperor's spire and the balcony on which he stood. They passed, however, skimming so close to the Palace only because they were taking the shorted possible path to join the chase.

Off toward the horizon were the brilliant blue engine cones of the fleeing Star Destroyer. It was shrouded by the myriad of turbolaser bolts being thrown at it by ground-based weaponry and the pursuit ships. The destroyer – a full sized _Imperial_ make – had made its play almost in conjunction with Motti's announcement, breaking off from its patrol path and focusing fire with one of its two accompanying _Victories_ to cripple the other. Then it had burned at full thrust toward the Imperial Palace; a clumsy attempt at a decapitation strike.

The deviant _Victory_ destroyer, pulling ahead due to its higher thrust-mass profile, had been shorn in half when the district shield was raised. Now it was strewn across the flats of the planetary surfacestructure that surrounded the palace, two large chunks having broken into several more on impact.

The larger ship had broken off the attack, probing the shields and attempting to bore a hole with focused fire. The captain – whoever they were – was obviously a greater fool than it took just to throw in with an insurrection; if he'd remembered his technical command training, he would have known that even a weak ground-based shield would be able to withstand sustained fire from a single _Imperial_ class Star-Destroyer. To punch through one as powerful and well-maintained as the secondary shield for the Federal District, one would need a fleet of dozens of ships focusing their fire for hours on end to overstress the shield projectors. That, or the overwhelming force of the Death Star.

Although the remaining Destroyer had abandoned its probing and was in full flight, lifting away from the surface with all possible speed, there was now no less than fifteen more of its _Victory_ and _Imperial_ siblings moving to intercept from all directions. Tarkin itched to be the one giving the orders – for he found he could rarely trust those outside his sphere of influence to strategize in keeping with his own ideals – but he knew intervention would be pointless. The district commander would have the deviant Destroyer apprehended in short order, barring any staggering lapses in judgement.

The interrogation of its bridge crew – for they were the ones assured to be turncoats, as opposed to the many of the ship's personnel that were likely to be unwitting accessories blindly following orders – would provide excellent insight. Yet, Tarkin couldn't help but feel the attack was a sacrificial one; a gesture to prove intent, rather than an earnest – and therefore exceedingly naïve – attempt to decapitate the Imperial leadership.

He looked back down at his datapad, forgotten for several minutes now. Tarkin had come out here to view the Coruscant skyline as the brilliant red of the sky faded to dusk, read the report from Colonel Yularen on the Rebel cruiser from Yavin, and – if he had time – reflect on his ever-changing predicament.

Only moments after opening his datapad, however, things had taken a turn for the infuriating. A high priority holonet ping – one from the emergency broadcast system – had caught his attention, and with it came tidings of civil war.

He scrubbed through the recording again, landing on a point in the middle of the speech. The still wasn't a flattering one; Motti's lips were curled in the act of speaking, nostrils flared in a furious sneer, brow furrowed. The wayward Admiral looked worse for wear than when Tarkin had seen him last, sporting several more unexplained bruises. Perhaps they had been acquired during the rough manoeuvres over Yavin that had covered his escape from custody.

But the man's neck was another story, left angry and inflamed by his invasive augmentation. Tarkin's medicinal knowledge only stretched as far as the most basic field surgeries, but he was sure that the damage that Vader had inflicted was wholly internal. While Tarkin could imagine some physical augmentation might be needed to abate the symptoms of the injury – as he doubted it could be fully healed even with invasive bacta treatments – the latticework of external sutures and supports looked excessive. Could the admiral have mutilated himself to make his injuries more poignant?

Tarkin wondered if Palpatine had been made aware of the proclamation yet. To the best of his knowledge, Vader and the Emperor continued their clandestine meeting one level below. Regardless of whether they were yet aware of Motti's declaration of secession, Tarkin expected that he would be summoned back in short order. Whether that summons would be to have his reprieve voided as the fallout of Motti's denouncement, or to receive new instructions in responding to his insurrection, he daren't guess.

Another flight of TIE fighters screamed past the pinnacle, keeping a greater distance from the previous squadron. The dusk had grown so deep that Tarkin could no longer make them out. The fringes of the Coruscant skyline at the edge of the federal district were aglow with light. Now distant in the inky blackness above was the blue glare of the Star Destroyer's engines, acting as the focal point for the myriad red, green, and aqua bolts of lasers, turbolasers, and ion shots.

The doors onto the balcony opened with the barest puff of air escaping from the pressurized interior, and Tarkin caught a flash of vibrant blue in the periphery of his vision as Grand Vizier Mas Amedda approached.

"Supreme Moff Tarkin," Amedda addressed him. His voice was cool and professional, which – when contrasted with his earlier smugness – was a tonic for Tarkin's mood. "Overseeing the defense, I take it?"

When the Grand Vizier was rattled or upset, the distinct lack of emotion he showed – the sudden shift from smug superiority to impeccable professionalism – was almost as obvious as visible displeasure.

"Merely observing, Amedda." Tarkin looked down at his datapad and put it to sleep. Again, Yularen's report would have to wait. "I'm afraid that my new commission has yet to be affirmed outside the Emperor's inner circle."

"One would think that – when tasked with an imperative such as yours – that you would act with more initiative, perhaps relying on the clout of your previous title if need be." It seemed that Amedda understood the pyrrhic nature of his promotion. No doubt he would be reveling in the thought of Tarkin failing and being brought to task.

"If I was still a youthful upstart, perhaps…" Tarkin mused. "Come now Vizier, you speak foolishness. How would the Emperor view my following such a thorough scrutiny by seizing control of the planetary defenses? More than that, I'm not familiar with such a complex defense schema as Imperial Center's. They are better left to perform their duties as they know best."

"And if the luminaries of the Home Fleet harbor dissident sympathizers? Sleepers?" Amedda asked. "You would have already failed in your imperative, Governor."

"If the home fleet is host to insurgents, then I must say they are entirely too committed to the feint." Tarkin gestured at the fleeing Star Destroyer, which was suffering heavily under the sustained fire of its pursuers. "Their best chance has been and gone."

"Or they are more patient than you give them credit for," Amedda replied, the edge of disinterest in his drawl signaling his wish to end their small talk.

Tarkin paused, then sighed. "What do you want, Amedda?"

"The Emperor has instructed me to assemble the ruling council. You are required to represent the Council of Moffs and the Joint Chiefs."

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. "Grand Vizier, far be it from me to tell you how to perform your duties, but you seem to have developed a _curious_ inability to lead conversations with your most pressing message."

"Because I am no mere messenger, Governor." Amedda replied. "We are a civilized people. It is courteous to express some interest in the goings-on of others before committing to more serious matters."

It was purely lip service. Amedda would never cease his favored petty ploy. He enjoyed irritating others with banal conversation, in the hopes that they would excuse themselves from the conversation before he could deliver the Emperor's wishes, making the other party culpable for the failure in communication. Tarkin had several times almost been lured into compromising his subservience to the Emperor by Amedda's machinations, and he knew of several now-former colleagues whose careers had been brought to an unceremonious end after they were caught in one of the Chagrian's social traps.

"Perhaps you should adjust your priorities," Tarkin muttered.

"As you say," was the Vizier's noncommittal reply, turning to go. Implicit in the action was that Tarkin should follow.

For a moment, he was tempted to allow the Chagrian to go ahead, so that Tarkin would not have to bear his presence during the short trip down to the council chamber. Then a gust of chill air tugged at Tarkin, and finally he capitulated. There was nothing to be gained by standing out here watching the pursuit unfold, and everything to lose by being intentionally late to his first meeting of the Ruling Council as Supreme Moff.

Tucking the datapad under his slung arm, Tarkin turned away from the balcony's edge and approached the door back into the spire. The portal opened at their approach, and the pair was readmitted to the Emperor's climate-controlled residence.

Tarkin found himself standing on a plush rug. Against the wall nearest his right was a bank of three turbolifts; one the 'public' lift, and two that connected with other levels to which the Emperor required more private access. To the left, the Emperor's expansive suites unfolded with a design that – while by no means spartan in their appointment – were designed with such elegance that the angles, curves, and edges of the furnishings seemed almost perfectly distributed when viewed from any angle.

In the early years of the Empire, Palpatine's residence and throne room had been one and the same, both situated on this pinnacle level and separated by a partition. At some point during Tarkin's extended tenure overseeing the Death Star's construction they had been split between levels. Here, the entirety of the floorspace and multiple loft platforms were given over to the Emperor's already spacious tenement. The level below – which had previously been the audience chamber in which the Ruling Council convened – had been converted into a dedicated throne room more intimate and functional than the spacious official throne room down in the palace's main structure. As a consequence, The audience chamber was displaced almost a third of the way down the spire. Tarkin thought that the Emperor preferred having some extra distance between his private spaces and the haughty forum of the Ruling Council.

The royal apartments were even finer now than Tarkin had known them to be in years past. Save for supporting struts, the entirety of the walls of the Emperor's residence were constructed of outwardly polarized transparisteel panes, simultaneously granting privacy and peerless views of the federal district. The lowest floor of the residence was furnished with pieces of fine art, some mounted on free-standing walls, others displayed on podiums and plinths befitting their size. Near the furthest walls were some partitioned spaces for more personal use, with all the furnishings arranged concentrically around a lacquered table which put that of the Death Star's overbridge conference room to shame.

Above the entry level, three ascending loft balconies connected by a minimalist staircase that rose along the curve of the exterior wall provided even more floor space. The first was much like a study, with a luxurious desk and chair overlooking the floor below. Flanking it on either side and behind were shelves and cases filled with books – both of paper and holographic varieties – datapads, cards, and tapes; memory crystals; and perhaps even some plundered Jedi holocrons. It was a small glut of knowledge the Emperor deemed most important.

The lofts further above were, by design, unable to be observed from the inferior elevation of the residence's bottom floor. From what fixtures were placed near the balustrade Tarkin believed the second to be dedicated to the Emperor's living amenities, like a personal kitchen, dining facilities, and perhaps a refresher and leisure area – though Tarkin found it difficult to imagine the Emperor having the inclination to settle down on a couch and while away the time watching holodramas. He had to assume that the topmost loft served as Palpatine's personal bedchamber, as it was the only space in the suite that was totally hidden from casual observation by a visitor at the bottom floor.

It was a strange thing to have unsupervised access to the Emperor's chambers, though it was a privilege Tarkin would never consider abusing. For the mostpart, it was because there was little about Palpatine that intrigued him to the point that he would violate the Emperor's privacy to discern an answer. The only tempting thought – his idle belief that Vader and the Emperor were Sith – was overruled not only by the two red-robed guards standing silent vigil in the spaces between the three turbolift doors, but also by the implication that if Palpatine was a Sith lord he would have some means – arcane or otherwise – to know if Tarkin had trespassed the more cloistered spaces of his residence.

Tarkin completed his appreciation of the Emperor's luxurious quarters by inspecting the piece of art closest to him. There had been a time when several of the Emperor's prized pieces were works from his native Naboo, kept out of a fondness for his home planet. Over the years, though, more and more of those works crafted by human and Gungan artisans had been swapped out in favor of the treasures that Palatine himself had referred to as "the spoils of war". What Tarkin looked at now was a pair of ancient ceremonial daggers from Ryloth which – despite their age – still gleamed silver and gold, finely wrought with elegant curves, etchings, and inlays.

"Governor," Amedda spoke, tone impatient. He stood at the leftmost of the private lifts gesturing to the door as it slid open. "If you would be so kind."

"Of course," Tarkin said, walking briskly over and joining the Grand Vizier as he entered the lift.

They descended the one level to the throne room in just a few seconds, the lift unable to reach its blistering top speed over so short a distance. Neither of them spoke, Tarkin always happy to ignore Amedda, and the Chagrian evidently too perturbed to muster any worthwhile slights.

The door slid open, revealing a portraited view of the throne room's sunken foyer section. Darth Vader stood ready and crossed the threshold immediately, practically storming into the lift and stopping at its center.

"Lord Vader," Amedda said, for once looking taken aback. "Has the Emperor decided against attending the meeting?"

"My master will join us at his convenience," the Sith Lord replied shortly. "We are to continue without him."

"I see." Amedda looked searchingly out the opening as the turbolift doors closed once again. At first he seemed disturbed, but quickly that gave away to what seemed to be smug amusement – which of course indicated that he had gleaned something anathemic to Tarkin.

Tarkin imagined he knew what that was, but he ignored the change of the Chagrian's countenance and instead turned to Vader.

"Lord Vader…" Tarkin lifted his datapad, waking it so the Sith Lord could see the still image of Motti still paused on its screen. "Has his majesty voiced any thoughts on this new situation?"

Vader paused, seemed to reconsider, and then replied with a meaningful "He has made his displeasure known."

"I see." Tarkin nodded. "Has he expressed whether this will… impact… our strategies moving forward?"

"Only that he will speak with you after meeting with the ruling council."

Then that was good. if he had decided to rescind his decision the Emperor wouldn't still allow him to appear before the council sporting a new promotion.

What had the Emperor and Vader discussed in their protracted discussion? He had assumed it wasn't purely a private dressing-down, but everything Vader did indicated that he was furious; he seemed full of a latent rage that was waiting for an excuse to lash out.

It was almost ironic that – despite the drastic increase in power and clout – both Vader and Tarkin still held their same positions in the Imperial hierarchy; vaguely equal and second only to the Emperor

Despite the gargantuan nature of the mission he'd been tasked with, this conditional promotion did tell him one thing. Though the Emperor had gone to great lengths in stressing his lost trust in Tarkin's abilities, he did not seem to question his devotion. If Tarkin's resolve, commitment, or loyalty were at all in question, he never would have been anointed with these new powers – not even as a ploy to better consolidate his failure.

These new administrative powers, that was. Whatever Dark Side techniques Palpatine and Vader were versed in, it was clearly a realm of influence in which Tarkin would never tread. He was aware that the powers that defined them manifested at youth, and he had never shown supernatural aptitudes of any sort.

Nor did he want to; whether it was the monk-like society of the Jedi that had indoctrinated its members from birth, or the ever-clandestine, macabre dressings of the Sith, the cultures of these dichotomous ends were so… constraining. It seemed much better – to Tarkin – if one could instead excel at the conventional; politics, speech, and tactics were all more broadly and subtly applicable than the ability to snap a man's neck from across the room. Hopefully the Emperor appreciated the value of having a more 'mundane' third to balance out the supernatural zeitgeist he and Vader were immersed in. Hopefully the Emperor appreciated _anything_ about Tarkin at the moment.

The turbolift came to a stop, the second stage of its short journey complete. The doors slid open again, now admitting a raucous burble of arguing voices. However, it revealed not the hallway that encircled the audience chamber, but the raised semi-circular dais elevated the chamber itself – that which was normally reserved for Palpatine alone.

The Emperor's plinth was mostly empty, save for at its edge. There a trio of podiums with seats awaited, the centre one elevated to twice the height and featuring a proper throne. They overlooked the comparative pit of the audience chamber like a royal box at some less-gruesome colosseum.

Tarkin glanced at Vader – who seemed indifferent to the unexpected location of their disembarkment – and then at Amedda, whose mirth appeared to only have grown. He needn't voice his confusion.

"This is indeed the correct stop, governor," The Chagrian said. "Please, take your positions and await the Emperor's arrival. I will take the Arbiter's stand and convene the session when The Emperor joins us."

And with that, he gestured them out onto the platform, the motion looking every bit as if he were shooing away a child. Vader stepped into the chamber, Tarkin following with no small amount of trepidation.

The din of conversation faded sharply as they appeared on the plinth. Tarkin ignored it until he had taken a place at the left side of the Emperor's Podium, Vader on the right. Vader did not sit at such meetings, and neither would Tarkin.

When he looked down into the assembly area, Tarkin saw what was best termed as 'the usual suspects'. The inner circle of the Empire was an often changing one, with some core mainstays such as the Imperial Advisors, and other more malleable roles that were filled and swapped as their occupants were required elsewhere. Tarkin himself would attend the meetings when he was within the core worlds, but his duties as Grand Moff of the outer rim – and as overseer of the Death Star project – had for the mostpart kept him away from Imperial Centre these last few years.

Including Tarkin, Vader, and the yet-to-reappear Amedda, the Emperor's inner circle now comprised fifteen men. The Ruling Council itself was comprised of the Grand Vizier, and the Imperial Advisors; Ars Dangor, Sate Pestage, Janus Greejatus, and Kren Blista-Vanee. All of them wore resplendent garb, but the advisors' were so operatic in their design that Amedda's formal robes seemed modest in comparison.

The single largest other block present in the chamber was that of those organizations under the purview of the Ubiqtorate. For the overseeing body itself was the now Deputy Director Harus Ison. Representing the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order was Director Armand Isard, and for Military Intelligence and the Imperial Security Bureau were their Deputy Directors, Admiral Terrinald Screed and Colonel Yularen respectively.

Tarkin represented the Joint Chiefs and Council of Moffs, though for the later he also had the assistance of Moff Tian Jerjerrod, a chronically nervous but efficient administrator who had recently been appointed to his new title due in part to his construction work on the Death Star. The final group was comprised of Military representatives; General Tagge, Admirals Kendal Ozzel and Nils Tenant, and now Darth Vader as their Supreme Commander – though Tarkin expected that the others had yet to be informed of this.

The collective inner circle stood in the negative space that was encircled by the ring of curved tables and chairs that would be used during the meeting proper. They collectively stared back at Tarkin with unconcealed shock. Tagge seemed the least stunned, though still taken aback, and Yularen looked both relieved and surprised. The rest ran the full gamut from astonished to incredulous, with each man showing hints of some secondary emotions; horror and outrage from the advisors and Ubiqtorate contemporaries, doubt and confusion from the military leadership and Moff Jerjerrod. Examining their reactions, Tarkin expected that it would be the advisors and the colleagues under the Ubiqtorate's purview – sans Yularen – that would present the most resistance.

"What in the stars…" one voice muttered, though Tarkin could not identify the speaker. Evidently his dismissal had been a forgone conclusion for the council at large. He elected to not acknowledge the collective surprise at his appearance.

"Gentlemen," Tarkin greeted them, placing his datapad down on his podium. "If you would take your seats, I expect the Grand Vizier will call us to order shortly."

Nobody moved, the silence dragging as the council stared at them with abject shock. Finally, Tagge and Yularen – the only two present with their wits still accounted for – moved to leave the common space and seat themselves at their desks. Still, the others remained, beginning to talk amongst their cliques in hushed tones.

Tarkin frowned. He had given a polite suggestion at the very most, but the promptness with which it had been disregarded foretold an unruly, combative session. There would be trouble.

Ozzle and Tenant had extricated themselves from the quiet melee at the chamber's centre and were moving to join Tagge in the military quarter of the ring when one of the large doors to the chamber's exterior corridor opened to admit Mas Amedda. Tarkin caught a glimpse of the dark city skyline through the windows opposite the opening, then the doors closed again.

The Chagrian did not speak as he circled around behind the advisor's tables and approached the plinth. There he mounted a set of narrow steps that took him to his position on the small intermediary level between the chamber's floor and the plinth. There was room there for his seat, a terminal and podium, and for him to stand in the space between the two, but scarce much else.

Amedda remained standing, surveying the room silently as the council members broke apart and wended to their seats at the ring. Even when all had found their places he said nothing, waiting.

Their anticipation was short lived. Before the minute was out, a light illuminated above the private turbolift that had to this point gone unused, and its door opened to reveal Emperor Palpatine and two of his royal guards.

The Emperor shuffled out onto the plinth, his guards moving to positions at either end of the plinth's balconied edge. The assembled men in the pit came back to their feet and bowed at his arrival. Tarkin did likewise and Vader knelt. They only straightened again when Palpatine reached his throne, which rose on a slender column when he sat, lifting to the level of the tall center podium and rotating to look out over the council.

The Grand Vizier banged his staff once on the floor and seated himself, as did the rest of the council. Only Tarkin and Vader remained standing.

"Gentleman of the Ruling Council," Amedda announced in his booming voice. "We are called to order under the supervision of our Lord Emperor Palpatine, Supreme Commander Vader and Supreme Moff Tarkin attending."

The Chagrian let that sit before continuing. It took a few seconds for the council at large to comprehend what he was saying – perhaps because what the Chagrain suggested seemed impossible. Tarkin and Vader, both situated at the heart of the Death Star debacle, and yet given unimaginable promotions? It was unthinkable.

Amedda waited for the council to make some acknowledgement before continuing – that which he received being several members reflexively exclaiming under their breaths as understanding came.

"The agenda at hand: recovering from the loss of the Deep Space Mobile Battlestation, combatting the Rebellion, and responding to the new Insurrection as announced by the disgraced Admiral Conan Motti. I invite anyone with some immediately pressing matters to speak now."

When he invited 'pressing matters', though, the obviously sought-after alternative came forward instead, in the form of Admiral Screed rising from his seat, outrage written across his face as he addressed Palpatine directly.

"My Lord Emperor, I beg your pardon, but I must decry Governor Tarkin's position in this endeavor. He has shown himself unworthy of your trust!"

"And I Lord Vader!" Pestage added, also standing. "My Lord, both have failed you. They've failed the Empire! They should have no place in this council, and they clearly have no place in the Empire's future!"

Palpatine surveyed them both but said nothing. It was his wont during sessions of the ruling council to abstain from the debates and squabbles, and merely observe the powers at play... but it was not so often that he deigned to ignore matters presented directly to him. This silence, almost coy in its pointedness, set Tarkin on edge. If the personal entreaties of his sycophants held no traction, Palpatine was often quick to dismiss them – some small measure he took to keep the discussions directed towards topics that were more fruitful, or at least less centered on irritating him with repeated appeals. That he did not dismiss them now implied that he was willing to listen to their arguments.

"Please, my Lord Emperor," Janus Greejatus was the next to speak. "The Empire is built upon a meritocracy. Think of the implications! If so heinous a failure is rewarded with promotion, the entire hierarchy crumbles!"

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your impassioned pleas," Tarkin interjected, feeling this had gone on long enough. "I'm sure the Emperor has taken your points to heart, but the issue has been settled. Rest assured, Greejatus, that these can hardly be called promotions. We have been tasked with righting the wrongs that have occurred at and since that first engagement over Yavin, and that imperative necessitates these new roles."

"It is all very well and good for you to _say_ that your new position is one of penance, Governor," Isard drawled. "But from where I sit, I don't see much resemblance. You and Lord Vader stand on the Emperor's plinth, at the sides of his very throne, literally _looking down_ on the rest of us even though we have served the Empire just as loyally… and with no such blemishes to our records as you have now accrued."

Tarkin was saved from having to respond when Greejatus inserted himself once more, now speaking with a fervor.

"How can we expect our plans to be sound if created under the oversight of two who failed in the deployment of a power as great as the Death Star? To let them, of all people, hold sway over our strategies… it would not just be the blind leading the blind, but the blind leading the sighted, ignoring all their warnings of the cliff edge ahead! The meritocracy-"

"Enough of your petty obstructions," Vader ordered, his booming voice silencing Greejatus instantly.

Of course, that was easier said than done. It was deeply ingrained in the Imperial hierarchy that the right hand must fight the left for the mind's favor; a tactic to prevent the formation of rogue cells and disallow any one person to reach a position so stable where it might be possible to attempt a coup. Tarkin, in his lofted position within Palpatine's inner circle – one where he was one of the few above suspicion of hoping to replace the Emperor – had long thought himself above the practice... or rather that his engagement in it was less like hand-fighting-hand and more akin to boot-stomping-bug. Yet, even he was not totally extricated from the squabbling and vying for favor. Now, in fact, he found himself in desperate need of the Emperor's favor, a state he had not been consigned to since the formative years, when the hierarchy had been fluid and subject to sudden change.

It seemed a simple order to tell the council to put their 'petty' squabbles aside and focus on the grave existential threat to the Empire, but the truth was that for the council, those squabbles were _everything_. Each well timed barb was a vampiric transaction of the Emperor's favor; approval was their capital, and if they could not generate more of their own, it was their literal imperative that they thieve it from one-another in small, vicious chunks. For most of his service Tarkin had tolerated the combative culture that this check on officials' power had instilled. Often, he had appreciated how effective it was at keeping Palapatine's position untouchable, and in maintaining Tarkin in his own place a step down from the pinnacle. Now, though, it showed its most critical flaw. When swift, decisive action was needed, the intricate and draconian rules of this ruthless commerce of words proved a chokepoint. It strangled their ability to react to a crisis the same as the most inefficient Republic bureaucracies.

Vader waited a moment, daring any of the assembly members to defy him. When none spoke, he continued. "How many have joined this insurrection?"

"Military Intelligence has been receiving reports of officers closely connected to Motti soliciting various navy captains over the past seventy-two hours," Screed reported. "Currently, there are confirmed contacts with the bridge crew of nine different Star Destroyers, and about three times that number in smaller vessels. Of course, those are only the ones that have elected to report their encounters to high command. If we assume that the selection of individuals to make contact with has been at all discerning, then we can safely assume that these reports reflect the minority of those reached out to."

Ars Dangor nodded. "So we must assume that those officers that haven't reported the interaction have either deserted, become sleeper agents, or are conflicted enough that they have kept the matter to themselves, rendering them compromised."

"Also, keep in mind that those reports may have been strategic decisions to place the reporters above suspicion," Yularen offered. "Sacrificing the element of surprise to place sympathetic elements in positions of trust."

At this, Tarkin noticed that Palpatine shifted slightly, turning his head a fraction toward Yularen. He observed a moment longer, but the Emperor neither spoke nor moved again, and Tarkin returned his attention to the council.

"A thought on that," he said. "This attempted decapitation strike – a pair of destroyers attempting to subvert the entire home fleet – was utterly pathetic. Perhaps Motti voluntarily ceded the element of surprise for a greater purpose, but failing to sufficiently feign a surprise attack is a level of incompetence of which not even Motti is guilty. Hence, I suspect the events of today to be another layer of diversion, meant to distract from a true first strike that might have a chance of actually succeeding.

"We should be prepared for a coordinated attempt to seize one or multiple key strategic locations. Motti must know that currently he does not have the capability to wage a viable long-term campaign, but he has also shown today that he has no expectation of a quick and decisive victory. As I see it, the most likely targets are strategic planets along primary hyperspace routes. I would consider Corellia a prime target, as control of that would block rapid access to large portions of the mid and outer rims, and would allow Motti to engage in a more protracted campaign against the core."

"A considered idea, Governor," Ozzle said. "But if this was the diversionary strike, then would the true attack not have already come? With every hour we are at less of a disadvantage."

"Yes, but the disadvantage persists nonetheless, even as we take steps to counteract it. At this very moment we do not have a fleet assembled that can respond to incursions, and until one is formed Motti can attack at his leisure and know that his target will only receive reinforcements piecemeal. Furthermore, the operation has only been organized in the last few days. From the proclamatory holovid It's clearly very ramshackle – one might even say wholly improvised – with the clear impetus being a wish to capitalize on the current state of disarray as quickly as possible. Perhaps there has been some delay; units not yet in position, or inefficient lines of communication that have impeded the passage of orders. I maintain we should be prepared for news of a larger, more co-ordinated strike within the next few hours; a standard day at the very most. Whatever the chosen target, we must be prepared to respond with a relief fleet immediately."

A moment of silence followed his words, and Tarkin only realized the potent sense of discontent when Kren Blista-Vanee spoke.

"Are we just going to ignore the bantha in the room? Why should we even _consider_ this 'counsel'? The fact of the matter is, Governor Tarkin was in command of the mobile battlestation when it was defeated! How can we trust any of the 'wisdom' he shares?"

"That point is rendered moot." Tarkin snapped back. "We will not belabour it any longer."

"Actually, Governor, we shall." Amedda corrected him. "Advisor Blista-Vanee raises a valid concern, and we should not expect the members of this council to rest easy until it has been resolved to everyone's satisfaction."

Tarkin glowered at Amedda. His new rank placed him well above having to concern himself with the Chagrian's passive aggressive machinations, but the Grand Vizier still headed the council. If Tarkin overruled the Chagrian it would only make him appear to be abusing his new powers and frame him as unable to face his mistakes. For now, he would suffer Amedda and his enthusiastic stoking of the flames of the other councilmembers' ire.

Yularen picked up the thread of their planning, attempting to put the discussion back on target. "As you say, governor, the insurrection may be afflicted by insufficient messaging capabilities. Our own lines of communication have been completely choked since news began to spread of the defeat at Yavin. It's difficult to tell which ships are silent due to messages being lost in holonet relay congestion, and who have abandoned their posts. At the moment we're waiting on returns from over sixty percent of the navy, and the general disarray after Alderaan isn't helping. Officers and enlistees of all ranks are turning up absent without leave, taking unauthorized sabbaticals to reassess their devotion and such.

"What do you mean, 'unauthorized sabbaticals'?" Vader questioned.

"A minority of enlistees and lesser officers have been disappearing from their postings across the Empire. At first, we believed it to be a mass desertion – and technically, it is – but further inquiries have revealed that many or most of these deserters have been returning to their home systems to evaluate their commitment."

Screed leaned forward, the metal of his cybernetic optic glinting with the movement. "Military Intelligence has been working to track down these wayward persons. Among those we've found, it seems that a small nudge back to the service and an assurance of leniency during the mayhem is enough to encourage a prompt their return to duties. Those who do not return are forced into hiding, but most who do so are quickly apprehended."

"That is unacceptable," Vader boomed. "Any who desert their posts are traitors. They should be tracked down and executed, not given free rein to be insubordinate and return without punishment."

"Lord Vader, not only do we not have the free manpower to track down every vanished army trooper, we would be hard pressed by the further loss that executing every AWOL enlistee would represent." Tagge shook his head. "It goes without saying that recruitment is at an all time low, and we cannot afford any further losses until we have a stable stream of new enlistees again."

"Perhaps, but if officers are questioning their commitment then they are unfit to be officers," Ars Dangor countered. "The bare minimum of discipline _must_ be enforced; if we cannot purge the disloyal, then at the very least they must be stripped of their commissions and sent back down to the rank and file."

"So we lure back deserters with promises of amnesty and then punish them with demotions to places where they can tell other enlistees of this betrayal?" Ozzle looked amused. "Not only would you ratify their misgivings, you'd be likely to precipitate a cascade of desertions that would not be so easily recovered."

"And your alternative is to simply let the unfaithful staff our bridges, command our guns, and organize our hangars?" Dangor's tone became heated. "You'd invite a rot into the heart of the Empire to avoid-"

"Gentlemen, this is _not_ our most pressing issue," Tarkin interrupted, having tired of waiting for Amedda to rein the argument in. "You have forgotten Lord Vader's initial question. We were discussing the number of insurrectionist ships; an _immediate_ military threat. What, exactly, are the hard numbers?"

He looked at Nils, who seemed to shrink a little under his gaze… but also, he looked nervous. Why?

"By our estimates, Motti may have subverted up to five or six percent of all ships."

A murmur of disbelief rolled through the chamber, one which Tarkin was for once in agreement with.

"Surely your projections are in error," he said. "Such a fraction would put hundreds of ships at Motti's disposal. What could produce such an estimate?"

"The… uh…" Nils faltered, examining his datapad. Yularen stepped in to explain.

"Correlation of the traits of the captains who have reported their contact, Supreme Moff. We identified the most common similarities and extrapolated to how many might have been subverted if Motti successfully propositioned most other commanding officers of the same demographic."

Pestage leaned forward over his desk, intrigued. "Well, if we know the similarities in the men that Motti has subverted, would that not make it easier to identify potential double agents? What's the profile? Are there any common traits among the officers that have been propositioned?"

Screed looked as if he was about to reply, but then he looked down at his datapad, frowned, and said "My apologies, Admiral Tenant. It would seem we've tread on your own attempt to explain this very matter to Lord Vader, have we not? By all means, continue; the Admiralty should have the summary of Military Intelligence's report."

Nils shot Screed a look as if he had just been betrayed, then took a moment to sort through his datapad. "There are several frequent correlations, advisor. Some unlikely threads like propensities for certain manoeuvres and aggressive tactics, or aptitude test scores that fall into unusually tight ranges; and some more likely ones are individuals who have openly expressed dissatisfaction with their superiors at some point in their career. The most prevalent shared trait, present in over seventy percent of known subverted or propositioned officers is…" Nils paused, his nervousness seeming to come to the fore. "…that they have expressed distaste or objections to Lord Vader's leadership, either openly or among their acquaintances."

Tarkin glanced sidelong at Vader, realizing that he must have been made aware of this during his private discussion with the Emperor. That would explain his increasingly foul temperament... and why the Emperor's displeasure had been leveled at both of them. From his perspective they would be equally at fault for the Empire's extant troubles. Tarkin's malcommand of the Death Star would be matched – at least in the Emperor's eyes – by Vader's repeated provocation of Motti, and the heavy-handed discipline of his subordinates that had apparently been a source of disillusion among the Empire's officers

Tarkin's first thought – that Motti had done them a service by cleanly identifying unreliable elements in the Imperial hierarchy and giving pretext for their elimination – was a surprisingly foolhardy one, and he refrained from giving it voice. With a moment's further consideration, he spoke.

"Well, that seems an obvious angle. Motti is enlisting those who for some reason or another have been disillusioned of the Empire's leadership. When we have a more complete index of those subverted by the insurrection, I'm sure there will also be a sizeable number who disagree with the opaque nature of the hierarchy. Some may take issue with the Ruling Council, and others will disagree with the doctrines I have set."

He said as much more to draw focus from Vader than implicate himself. The truth of the matter was that the Tarkin Doctrine and its accompanying ideologies were so widely accepted within the Imperial hierarchy that they could be considered one of the foundational documents of the New Order. The policies it inspired – his ideas of over-sector governance in particular – had been uniformly successful, up until the Death Star blunder had put a blaster bolt to the foot of his terror stratagem.

It would have been difficult for Motti to find more than a few officers so strongly displeased with his policies that they would turn against the whole of the Empire. Vader, however, and his habit of summarily executing officers whose crimes usually amounted to little worse than well-intentioned failure… suffice to say in many sectors one could hardly kick over a stone without uncovering a dozen third lieutenants commiserating that Vader was everything wrong with the Empire.

But he had allowed himself to be distracted from the issue at hand: If Motti had subverted a hundred Star Destroyers, or two hundred, or three hundred… it was but a tiny percentage of the total Imperial fleet, but if they could all be brought to bear in any single engagement, it would constitute an unanswerable force. The Imperial Fleet was massive, yet it was thinly spread; even the Home fleet at its newly-bloated size did not exceed a hundred capital ships, though they were reinforced against invasion by innumerable defense platforms and surface-based weapons emplacements.

Tarkin decided to turn the conversation in that direction, rather than risk Vader's anger if he allowed talk to stray into areas critical of his command.

"Motti may have developed an inclination toward the megalomaniacal, but he is still far from incompetent. With even one percent of the Imperial Navy at his disposal, he could successfully field a concentrated fleet of large enough size to win any single engagement against the constituent elements of our current distribution of imperial assets. He might not be able to defeat the Home Fleet or endanger the core, but if given time to consolidate he could seize any number of key Imperial installations and carve out his own fiefdom from which to stage a more prolonged campaign. If that occurs, we could go on to crush him by the end of a standard week and the image of unimpeachable Imperial might would still be shattered. When the rebellion is already utilizing the current disarray and their recent victory to stoke disorder and grow their numbers, we must not allow Motti's insurrection to suggest Imperial fragility. I suggest the immediate assembly of a taskforce of sufficient size and firepower to match the most generous estimates of his subversion. If this force is split – with the bulk positioned at Corellia and other large chunks situated at systems where the major hyperspace lanes intersect – we can rapidly field an appropriate response to major incursions against any system on any of the major lanes, and reinforce the first-responders with comparative speed."

The chamber had quietened, then become entirely still as his plan had dragged on. Now that silence hung over everyone, Tarkin included; a pregnant pause that he already knew was not going to be broken be resounding agreement to his suggestion.

"This is madness." Ison said. "We should not be taking orders from the man that may as well have piloted our new lynchpin weapon straight into a black hole the moment construction was finished. By the stars, this man appointed Motti – who has now declared a civil war on the Empire – to the joint chiefs!"

"The Emperor has made his decision." Tarkin raised his voice, tone harsh "You will respect that, Deputy Director, or you will leave the chamber." He did not do anything as undignified as shout. An officer forced to shout down their subordinates may as well hand over their code cylinders for all the credibility they ceded in the process.

"Do you speak for the Emperor, Governor Tarkin?" Mas Amedda asked, voice rich with what seemed like bemusement – though it was difficult to tell what particular smug emotion flavored the Vizier's words at any given moment.

Tarkin hesitated, but refused the urge to check Palpatine's reaction. Not with all eyes on him.

"Not on Imperial Center," he said, unable to fully hide the frustration in his voice. "I am the Emperor's voice only in the all the places where he is not heard. But nonetheless that I am present in this meeting speaks for itself. The decision has been made."

"Has it?" Amedda gave a final jab before turning back to the council at large, and Tarkin saw all the implications in that small statement.

The Grand Vizier would make no attempt to arrest the others' attempts to undermine Tarkin. Every rejection of his authority was another chance to convince Palpatine to rescind his promotion. That moment of naked glee in the turbolift had been at the realization that most of the Ruling Council would be out for Tarkin's blood.

"Now, Deputy Director, you were saying?" Amedda gestured at Ison.

"My point is made about the Governor's astounding inability to defeat the rebellion – even when working with overwhelming force – but we should also be discussing his chronic misuse of the mobile battlestation while he commanded it. Firing on Scarif as an act of desperation I can understand, even if it failed to stop the rebellion from absconding with the station plans-"

"-and destroyed the master blueprints for every piece of Imperial infrastructure," Screed interjected, to which nobody objected.

"-but Alderaan was a highly developed, prosperous, and influential member of the former Senate!" Ison continued. "Its destruction has done nothing but instill resentment in all corners of the Empire.

"Come now, Harrus," Tarkin said, his tone affable. "There's no need for willful stupidity. My decision in that matter is above reproach."

Ison only gave a look of utter disbelief.

"Shall I elaborate?" Tarkin asked, the question mostly rhetorical.

The other man only continued to stare at Tarkin as if he had grown a second head.

"By all means, Governor." It was Isard who spoke, voice tight with restraint.

Tarkin paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "As you said, Alderaan was populous, prosperous, and prominent. These were all key reasons in my decision."

"You destroyed Alderaan _because_ it-" Pestage began, but Tarkin silenced him with a chill look and a raised hand.

"If I do not finish my explanation then this meeting may well continue in circles indefinitely. I will state the breadth of it, and then we will finally put this matter aside."

"I highly doubt that," Pestage spat, scowling at him. Then settled back into his chair, arms crossed. The whole of the chamber was quiet, awaiting Tarkin's justification with baited breath and a general air of incredulity.

Tarkin eyed the troublesome advisor a moment longer, and then proceeded. "To cut to the point: Alderaan flaunted central Imperial authority with impunity, and I decided that the sum of their disloyalty not only merited being chosen as the Mobile Battlestation's declaratory strike, it necessitated it."

The room stirred with the prelude to an uproar, but Tarkin continued before it could take form.

"Alderaan's local government was one of the mostly deeply invested members of the Rebellion. Not only do we have strong indicators that the Viceroy Bail Organa was a formative member, and key figure of the Rebellion, but we know with certainty that his daughter, Princess Leia Organa – Alderaan's representative on the _Imperial Senate_ – was abusing her senatorial privileges to courier information for the Rebellion as recently as this past standard week, and was apprehended by Lord Vader while in the process of smuggling the plans of the Mobile Battlestation away from the intrusion at Scarif.

"Alongside this, an index of identified enemy combatants killed or captured at Scarif indicates that a significant portion – or even a majority – of the Rebellion's militias are comprised of Aldeeranian Consular Security personnel. Make no mistake; Alderaan's government had dived headfirst into the Rebellion, to the point where I would hesitate to call the two separate. If we describe the Rebellion as a resistance movement, then I would not hesitate to identify Alderaan as a rogue state within the Empire's borders.

"Objectively, Alderaan was a prosperous core world with a highly educated population that enjoyed a high degree of financial success and mobility. This, of course, should be held up as a paradigm for other Imperial worlds, but in Alderaan's case these hallmarks of prosperity were maintained while constantly flaunting Imperial doctrine. By the leadership's influence on its people, the entire planet was pitted against the Empire; taught to spurn Imperial principles and be rewarded for doing so with wealth and comfort. Alderaan was effectively two billion dissidents in waiting, its people slowly poisoned against the Empire by almost two decades of its leaders dispersing subtle anti-Imperial rhetoric into the planet's institutions. While Alderaan remained prosperous, it would be impossible to undo this indoctrination against the Empire."

"The Death Star was our solution to this problem. It solved the issue far more expeditiously and efficiently than a conventional occupation ever would have and functioned as a display of strength and conviction; a powerful statement to the galaxy at large that the Empire will not tolerate subversives, even from a key planet of the Imperial Hegemony… had it not been so quickly undercut by the defeat at Yavin. But regardless of the display's subsequent fouling by the Rebels, the destruction of Alderaan remains valid. Two billion rebel soldiers in the making dispensed with and a rogue state within our own borders eliminated; a perfect excision of a tumor from the heart of the Empire, and without need for boots on the ground."

Now Tarkin paused. His explanation was given, but he could predict that the next avenue of dissent would be the merit of deploying the Death Star at all. With a moment's thought, he decided that he should be proactive as opposed to reactive, and pre-empt the issue.

"And I should be clear that, with the Mobile Battlestation complete, it was of the utmost importance that we make a poignant demonstration of its capabilities. If I may allude to the doctrine I first laid down years ago, the Empire's thus far highly successful stratagem has been the threat of force. Potential dissidents were assured that subversive actions would be handily met by a detachment of the fleet and extreme prejudice, and they comprehended that because the efficacy of this response and our willingness to use it was well-demonstrated. With the development of a new means to project Imperial power, both our willingness to utilize it and its efficacy needed to be demonstrated at least once for the galaxy to see the threat was credible. So I posit that if the Death Star's message had not been undercut, the initial deployment against Alderaan should have assured that it would never need be fired again."

He had hoped that such a long, comprehensive spiel would be unanswerable. For many, it seemed it was – or at least too much to quickly unpack and evaluate. Ars Dangor, however, was quick to bite back at his explanation.

"And now it never will fire again," Dangor sneered. "And the whole galaxy knows. Clearly your grandiose plan has backfired."

Tarkin sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose before focusing his attention on the advisor. "Do you think me mad, Ars? Do you think that after three decades of loyal service to the galaxy, I have been struck with an inexplicable bout of omnicidal mania? If not, you'd be best served by considering my reasoning without thought to the current circumstances the station's loss has caused."

"I merely observe your obsession with grandiose displays of power at the expense of all shreds of pragmatism and suggest that your three decades of service may have been one too many." Dangor paused, almost laconically, and then added a glib "… _Supreme_ Moff Tarkin."

"A step too far. This session will not devolve to petty slights of character," Tarkin snapped, before turning to Amedda. "Grand Vizier, the matter has been settled. I implore you, exercise some control of this rabble so that we may finally turn the discussion to dealing with these threats."

"Clearly, _Supreme Moff_ Tarkin, the matter has not been settled." Amedda chided him, his tone just as glib as Dangor's "The Ruling Council at large continues to raise entirely valid points. If they are not addressed to everyone's satisfaction, we cannot expect those present to accept your strategies in good faith."

Tarkin paused for a moment, eyes closed. The room seemed to hold its breath, the assembly waiting for his reaction.

The instant passed, and Tarkin found his temper had not abated. With a deliberate slowness, he opened his eyes and shifted just enough that he could look Amedda in the eyes.

"The Grand Vizier," He said, voice exactingly neutral, "Shall leave the chamber."

In the seconds that followed, what small noise had been made by the others shifting in their seats ceased entirely. One could have heard a chit drop.

Amedda held Tarkin's gaze, and through set lips he asked, "What are you doing?" He spoke only the barest whisper, face turned away from all but Tarkin, Vader, and Palpatine, but it seemed that in the dead silence his words couldn't help but travel.

"I am simply following my imperative, Mas," Tarkin replied, making a concerted effort to keep his tone amicable. He didn't throw his voice to the chamber, but it carried through the hall regardless. "We are attempting to discuss tactics, and you insist on enabling and inciting conflict. I will not tolerate it."

Amedda's nostrils twitched, as if making to flare with anger, but he controlled himself, flicking his eyes to the Emperor. Tarkin likewise observed in the periphery of his vision as Palpatine made a show of stirring, only to adjust his posture a fraction and settle back into his throne. He said nothing.

The Chagrian looked back to Tarkin, his eyes now burning with impotent rage. Despite that, Amedda's carefully sculpted expression didn't slip. He stood, and with his own deliberate slowness circled around to the nearest door.

It felt good to knock the Grand Vizier down a peg – it felt good to be _able_ to – but Tarkin regretted that he hadn't contained his frustration. Eventually, Amedda would find a way to exact revenge for this indignity, and he had the means to assure that Tarkin would feel its pinch. He should have suffered the jabs.

With a pneumatic whoosh, Amedda stepped out into the chamber's encircling corridor. All the while, not a word was spoken.

Tarkin waited for door to close behind him, and then continued. "Moff Jerjerrod, do you feel you are capable of presiding over our meeting with the barest modicum more of decorum?"

Tian looked taken aback. "Uh, yes, Supreme Moff."

"The unless there are any objections, I grant you the chair… for what little time we have left. Kindly keep these squabbles from disrupting our planning."

Jerjerrod paused, misgiving written across his face. He glanced around the vipers nest that he was immersed in, then gave a hesitant nod. "…Yes, Supreme Moff."

"Very good." Tarkin cleared his throat and looked over the rest of the council.

He had not swayed them, but with their enabler expelled from the meeting it seemed he had foiled them. Now that he had done it once he would gladly dismiss anyone else who still insisted on obstructing him. However, he doubted that he would need to, given his empowerment of Moff Jerjerrod. The man was an excellent pick to fulfil Amedda's duties; he was unusual in that – aside from his nerves and seeming on the back-foot in all his interactions – Jerjerrod was profoundly unambitious and unrepentantly petty. The former had the benefit that he did not aspire to tear down Tarkin's position as many of the others did, and the later ensured that – once tasked with bringing the others to heel – he would clamp down with gusto on any attempts to derail the discussion.

"Now, if anyone can separate it from all the bickering, they will recall that I have made my suggestions clear for dealing with Motti's insurgency." Tarkin waved a hand in dismissal. "It is not my preferred course of action to be purely reactive, but we have little means to move aggressively against a threat whose location we do not know. Now, with regards to the Rebellion, I think we may take a more… proactive stance."

The chamber stirred uneasily at that, and Tarkin felt that his implication had been understood.

"We must punish their success in disabling the Mobile Battlestation. I have already dealt with the Alderaan threat, but there are other rogue states that must still be tended to, Death Star or no. Chandrila, Mon Cala, Ralltiir, and the numerous more less-influential systems giving covert support to the Rebellion must all be subjugated with extreme prejudice…" Tarkin paused. "Or bombarded to slag.

"Our first target should be Mon Cala. Where Alderaan provided the Rebellion trained personnel, two recent engagements have revealed that a conspicuous portion of the Rebellion's fleet is composed of ships of Mon Calamari design. I think we should bring an end to this support immediately. To that end, a subjugation taskforce will enter the Dac system and clear away any uncontrolled defensive emplacements in the vicinity. When we have secured the space over Mon Cala, we can begin the process of destroying major material stores, levelling manufactories and bombarding population centers that refuse to submit to Imperial rule. Shielded locations will be sabotaged by ground teams or overwhelmed by sustained focus fire. Nowhere must be safe, or our message will be diluted. Once our intention and our resolve are made clear, we can expect all but the most radical groups to yield under the threat of total destruction. Those that persist can be dealt with case by case over a more extended timeframe, so long as the overwhelming majority are subjugated."

"With the occupation in place, the existing government will be entirely replaced with true loyalists. Then we can begin the process of rooting-out and suppressing noncompliants and the sources of Rebel aid and resources. Make no mistake; this will be a lengthy and costly process. Perhaps by the end of it you will all have an appreciation for why I did not favor such a solution for the Alderaan problem. Once the initial suppression has been successful, we may turn to the other systems sympathetic to the Rebellion and give them the choice; capitulate now or face the same fate."

"Governor," Admiral Ozzle began. "Did you not just say that was your intention with the destruction of Alderaan? To destroy a prominent planet supporting the Rebellion, to instil fear into all others?"

Though Ozzle was cautious in voicing his doubts, Kren Blista-Vanee seized hold of his point with far fewer reservations. "That plan failed, Tarkin. What lunacy is it that you think we should try enacting it again?"

"The first implementation of this ideology failed specifically due to the mobile battlestation's destruction." Tarkin replied. "We went to great lengths to present the Death Star as a symbol of Imperial power. When it was defeated, the message received by the galaxy at large was that we had now lost the ability to project Imperial power; that we were no longer capable of subjugating a planet, or destroying it. We must take immediate steps to dispel that fiction. Once we make clear that – Death Star or no – the Empire will render any dissident planet an inhospitable wasteland, the doctrine of fear will achieve its goal."

"Forgive me for saying it, but that is just your belief, Governor," Isard rebutted. "You have no way of knowing for sure. I remain unconvinced your decision to deploy the Mobile Battlestation would have had any different outcome had the engagement over Yavin concluded in our favor."

"Not to worry, Director, you are quite forgiven," Tarkin said, voice chill.

Isard sighed, spreading his hands in exasperation. "Governor, I am trying to be reasonable. You gain nothing by making every small disagreement a hill to die on."

"You are free to express your doubts, director, but they are not the sole reasonable speculations. As a counterargument, do you really think Coruscant would be the same as it is now if the Death Star had come away from Yavin unscathed? Would there be over a million people rioting in the streets this very moment if the weapon which destroyed Alderaan now hung overhead? I think not. And for that reason, I believe we must show the galaxy its loss will not prevent us from utterly destroying those who still refuse to submit to Imperial rule."

"Governor Tarkin, I hate to interrupt," Ison cut in, sounding the exact antithesis of his words. "…but I have just received a priority flag from the Ubiqtorate listening post. The source of the intrusion into the Emergency Broadcast system has been identified as the master holonet relay station on Brentaal IV, and that station has now stopped forwarding signals or responding to pings entirely.

"Ah. It would seem the Governor's much-anticipated attack is now in progress," Screed observed. "But where, exactly? Brentaal itself is too obvious a target."

Tarkin's first reflex was irritation. Just when it seemed he was making headway in quelling the council, this call to action came. Second, was a grim sense of vindication in his assessment of Motti's opening strategy. Then both of those petty emotions fell at the wayside as his old knowledge of the Holonet came forward, demanding his attention.

His time in the Clone Wars working to shut down Count Dooku's propaganda shadowfeeds, and brief return to the field of holonet technology during the formative years of the Empire had required the layout and routing habits of the galactic holonet. Though he did not know much of the physical technologies involved, he knew that the Holonet worked by forwarding data along the shortest possible path through transceivers suspended in hyperspace, which were positioned along hyperspace lanes. This made some areas – like that around the Coruscant system – rife with redundant pathways, while other systems in the mid and outer rim could have only a single path for transmission to the rest of the galaxy. If a major relay point where hyperspace lanes met was put out of commission, it meant that some far-flung systems that routed to that hub as the shortest path for most data could be cut off entirely, or take several hours to realize the breakdown in communication and switch their routing preferences to a longer but still working pathway.

All that considered, Tarkin felt Screed was right that Brentaal was not the actual target of the attack. As the point where the Hydian Way and Perlemian Trade Route intersected and where the Commenor Run terminated, Brentaal was a significant system in its own right… but it was too close to Imperial Center. The Perlemian Trade Route terminated only a few systems further, at Coruscant itself, which enabled a rapid response to any aggressions against the system. If the communications blackout was the prelude to an attack – as it surely was – it wouldn't be for Brentaal itself, but certainly for one of the systems that would have their shortest holonet route to Imperial Centre severed by the relay intrusion. Even now, that system would have an emergency transmission bouncing its way to the Coruscant system through subspace transceivers, but that wouldn't arrive for many hours.

The attack also wouldn't be for any systems further up the Hydian Way. The two next systems heading out into the Colonies were Wakeelmui and Uviuy Exen, and both were the terminus for secondary hyperspace routes that allowed simple switching of transmissions bound for Imperial Center. The lines of communication that would actually be severed until relay station operators took note and began rerouting their transmissions included the length of the Perlemian Trade Route all the way to Gizer, the whole of the Commenor Run, and a large chunk of the Hydian way until just shy of Exodeen, which as a large hub in its own right would have rapidly switched to routing through Corellia via Denon.

All those systems affected by the blackout at Brentaal would be able to re-establish communications with Imperial Center if given enough time to reconfigure their routing infrastructure to secondary paths, but there would be at least one system out there that would not be re-joining the holonet so quickly; one whose absence was meant to be masked within the larger blackout.

"There are a dozen plentiful mining worlds in the blackout area," Nils was saying. "But those are of little use in the first days of a campaign, and not the most strategically valuable points to seize first."

"Surely the first goal would be to seize a defensible fortress world," Tagge said, brow furrowed. "One that cuts our direct access to a sector that they can then plunder for resources at leisure."

"Your army background is showing, Tagge," Screed scoffed. "With a sizeable enough fleet as we suspect, a planetary base of operations would just present a central target for us to converge on. What Motti would value most in a first raid is a store of fuels that can sustain his fleet; tibanna gas, hypermatter, coaxium… perhaps food supplies for his personnel, also."

"Colla IV fits both of those criteria." Ozzle added. "A fortified strategic target that is further distanced from Imperial Center than Brentaal, and with plentiful stores of fuels and resources."

"But those can be found elsewhere," Pestage argued.

"And they hardly require some grand operation to seize from Colla when they can be just as easily procured from a less-defended position in the Outer Rim." Dangor waved a dismissive hand. "I don't think Colla is our answer."

Tarkin took all of this in, his own theory taking place. Why go to such efforts to steal fuel when the ships that burned it were so much more valuable?

"It's Kuat," he said. "In the dead middle of the blackout zone, and on a secondary hyperspace lane small enough that its failure to rejoin the network would not create a large, obvious break in the restored lines of communication. It seems that Motti wishes to add to his arsenal."

A quiet descended over the chamber as the others considered his conclusion. For a few seconds, Tarkin feared the more combative members would refute him purely as a reflex. After a moment, Isard shrugged. "The reasoning is sound, but it would indicate that Motti is planning for a protracted campaign with a need for as many ships as possible."

"And well he may. Our earlier discussion was only speculation. Perhaps he also has designs for a rapid assault that requires more ships than he's managed to procure thus far. The exact reason can be discerned later. More important is that, if nobody can think of a more likely target, we should be scrambling our response."

" _Does_ anyone have any suggestions they think to be more likely?" Jerjerrod looked around the chamber.

Nobody offered an alternative.

"Your Highness," Tarkin turned to Palpatine. "We must act quickly. Do I have your blessing to appropriate a portion of the home fleet for an immediate expedition to Kuat?"

The Emperor turned to him slowly, a profound scowl fixed upon his face. "Do what must be done… but take no more than a quarter."

"Yes, my Lord." Tarkin bowed low, straightened up, and turned back to the council. "Gentlemen of the Military, time grows short and our needs are great. I task you with assembling a detachment of the home fleet and having it ready for immediate departure to Kuat. To all, be wary; insurrectionists will still lurk within the hierarchy, waiting for the opportunity to obstruct or sabotage us at a key moment."

Ozzle, Tennant, and Tagge all acknowledged him with salutes – the latter's seeming conspicuously more languid than that of his colleagues. Before they could move, though, Vader supplemented Tarkin's orders with his own.

"Admiral Tenant," Vader boomed. "You are to detach a smaller force from the bulk and secure the holonet relay at Brentaal IV. Use whatever means you deem necessary to re-establish communications."

"Yes, my Lord." Nils saluted his new supreme commander. "It will be done."

Yularen cleared his throat, and then spoke in his distinctively gentile tones. "My lord Emperor, I wonder if you would hear my request on one final matter before we dissolve this session."

Palpatine turned his withering gaze on the intelligence officer. "Speak."

"Perhaps, My Lord Emperor, we could supplement our efforts with another mind to complement Supreme Moff Tarkin's prowess."

Tarkin blinked twice; a subtler alternative to rolling his eyes.

"I had the thought that – if you were still of the mind to forgive, that we might recall Grand Admiral Thrawn from his penance in the unknown regions. I believe he has paid a suitable price for his defeat at Lothal, and his tactical skills would be of great-"

"Thrawn will not be joining you in this endeavour," Palpatine said. His voice was rich with an emotion that Tarkin thought to be almost contempt… but not quite.

Yularen paused, then bowed his head in acquiescence. "As you wish my lord."

Of all things, it seemed that this had stretched the Emperor's patience to its limit. Before Yularen could return to his seat, Palpatine lifted a single hand. All eyes fell on him.

"Leave us."

"This meeting is adjourned." Jerjerrod announced promptly. "We all know our responsibilities. When we reconvene…" He glanced at Tarkin before continuing. "When the Grand Vizier reconvenes the council, I recommend all currently present bring a far more comprehensive report of these issues than today's lackluster showing."

The Moff's closing words earned him livid stares from across the chamber, but the chamber was nonetheless quick to empty. The officers of the military were already producing comlinks and working to carry out their orders even as they followed the advisors into the encircling hallway.

Soon enough, the three of them on the plinth were the last to remain. Tarkin awaited his final instructions with trepidation. He feared that Palpatine would rebuke his heavy-handed treatment of the Grand Vizier.

The Emperor's throne descended back to the level of the plinth. He rose from it and moved away from the podium, his pair of guards moving to join him. He did not speak to either of them.

"My Lord," Tarkin began, remembering that Palpatine had wished to speak with him. "Do you have any instructions for us?"

The Emperor did not respond, shuffling away from them, his back bowed under the weight of the Empire's woes. When he spoke, it was not to Tarkin, but to Vader.

"These new developments were not unforeseen, but they were unlikely. I will contact you when I have meditated."

"Yes, my master."

The Emperor approached the left of the two private turbolifts, and its door slid open at his nearing.

Vader and Tarkin stood abreast, stopping short of following the Emperor and his guards into the lift. Tarkin glanced at the Dark Lord, and then looked to the Emperor as he turned to face them. Palpatine's gaze was downturned; distant.

"My Lord?" Tarkin queried. His voice echoed in the now empty chamber, and he had the sudden feeling that they were, all three of them, so very alone.

After a moment, Palpatine's eyes swept up and over them. His distant expression became one that was merely detached, as if he looked at Tarkin and saw only empty space. The Emperor saw only a failure in waiting, and for that he had no instructions, and certainly no words of encouragement.

"Your Imperative stands. See it done, and destroy this insurgent sect before the Empire is rent apart."

The lift door slid closed and Vader and Tarkin were left standing on the plinth, the silence overbearing. Tarkin looked at Vader and – for once – Vader shifted, looking back at him. That moment of commiseration, standing in the empty, echoing halls of power…

…He felt as if they had been charged with saving the galaxy from a raging inferno, even as it burned away to ash before them. It was made all the worse with the knowledge that, however unintentioned, they had struck the sparks that had birthed the flames.


End file.
